Burned and Scarred
by Kumon5
Summary: One-shot rewritten as a full story. Months after the disaster at the opera, a fire breaks out in an old apartment building. The Phantom is left with a horribly burned Christine to care for in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It was three in the morning when the screaming started. Christine woke from an otherwise sound sleep to the smell of smoke, disoriented and coughing. Her heart drummed in her throat as she stumbled from her little twin bed.

"Fire! Somebody help, there's a fire!" Thinking quickly, she doused a rag in her washbasin and held it over her face. Her little wooded apartment would be up in smoke soon, and her too if she didn't hurry. Scrambling to gather a few prized possessions, she tripped on the threadbare rug. The crackling of fire was more of a roar, and the smoke dizzied her vision and stung her eyes.

The door fell with her as she pushed forward, fear urging her onward. Unable to reach out for balance or see, her path led out-

A hoarse cry tore from her throat as she tumbled down the flight of stairs. Pain bloomed in her arms and legs both from the impact and the heat. _Dear God, help me!_ Still, her hands clutched tight at her valuables, and she staggered to her burning feet. The smoldering wood railings creaked dangerously as she ran down the stairs.

Women and children shoved past her, crying streaks down sooty faces. Someone stomped on her toes, causing her to jump back- and lean her full weight, just for a moment, against the flaming bannister.

The old, dry wood splintered and gave way. Christine swore she saw her life reel before her eyes- her father's kindness, her lonely hours- a phantom's love stamped on her page after page of her memories. Her heart skipped in its pounding beat at the moment she began to fall.

 _I'm going to die._

Cinders and sparks whirled before her vision, dancing like the insects that bore their name. Her hair fluttered with the currents of hot air.

 _I'm going to die, and there is so much I regret._

She shut her eyes tight and braced for impact.

…

The fire brigade arrived, too late to save the old building and too late to excavate any bodies from the wreckage. The landlady openly wept, as did many of the former tenants. No one noticed their missing songbird amidst the confusion.

Quietly, behind collapsed beams and the embers of many homes, Christine breathed through ash and smoke. A shadow hovered over her, covered her prone and wounded body with painstaking gentleness. And, as the people began to comb the ruins in a vain attempt to save what little they had, both shadow and girl disappeared into the first snowfall.

…

The once-famed ghost of Paris trudged through dark alleys and odorous byways, cradling the load in his arms as if it were a child. However, with each breath that fogged in the cold air he was reminded that he carried a woman: the woman with which his world ended and began.

Almost despairingly, he wondered if this was an end or a beginning. Perhaps fate dictated it as the beginning of a long, slow end.

His footsteps kept a steady pace to a large grating at the edge of the icy cold Seine. Slowly, so as not to shift or distress the woman in his grip, he knelt and undid the latch. Water sloughed into the dark tunnel ahead. With his reflective eyes, he had little need for a lantern. The slippery twists and turns of Paris' underground were all quite familiar to him.

Winter was fast approaching, with its sleet and wind, and yet all the bone-thin ghost felt was the warmth of another body clutched to his own. _Christine_. She was alive, just barely, and if he had any say in the matter, she would stay alive. She would heal, and he would remain her adoring audience until the end of his days. For now, however, chimerical dreams had to wait. She was badly burned, all the way through her skin in many places.

He was privately glad she wasn't conscious to see him gag at the fetid smell of her bleeding flesh.

His heart did not ache- much. No, it had stopped feeling more than the obligatory beat of life months ago. Christine was gone of her own accord, with the choice he had given her. His only emotional stimulus came from watching over her as she went about her business. He watched as she was turned away from the de Chagny home and returned to her apartment. He watched as she became a working girl, mending and sewing in a dress shop. He listened as her repertoire shifted from arias to art songs and modern ballads.

She seemed content enough- there was a roof over her head, and food on her table. Aside from the pain of loneliness, no pain came to her, until now. In some small part of himself, he murmured that this was his fault: if he hadn't let her leave, she would not have been in the apartment to be burned.

Circling thoughts were pushed aside in favor of the practicalities of medicine. He pushed open the door to a smaller hideaway, exiting the cramped tunnel. Once she was laid out on the one bed the place afforded (he hadn't anticipated having to house two once his original living space was flooded), he meticulously peeled his cloak from where it had begun to clot to her wounds.

If he were religious, he would have crossed himself.

Instead, he just breathed out the most vile curses he knew in seven languages.

Much of her skin was gone. Her clothes had been burned away, revealing red, raw patches and worse, expanses of waxy white where the heat had seeped all the way under the skin. That face which one held all the beauty of the world now peeled and bled all across her cheeks. One particularly bad rift stretched from above the hairline, across eyelids swollen shut, slashed through those bruised lips and just past the chin. Her hair had been reduced to ash, and her scalp badly singed. Even her eyebrows hadn't escaped.

His throat clenched as he surveyed the rest of the damage. From the soles of her feet, up her legs, all across her abdomen and chest, skin was either missing in patches or essentially cooked.

He scrambled for a vial of ether. Thankfully she could still swallow the amount he dosed out. She'd have to remain unconscious for this next part.

He ran the tap in the tub, thankful that he still employed a number of street boys to keep the water heated. When it was half full, he piled towels at one end to keep Christine's head above water. Then, gently, he set her in the water and watched as grime, blood, and bits of dead skin floated away. It took an effort, but he removed his gloves and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Tissue debridement was a delicate matter and required the sensitivity only bare fingertips provided.

A third of the way down her abdomen, he drained the tub and refilled it, washing the gritty ash and dead flesh down the drain. Halfway through peeling away the dead skin he realized he needed a scalpel. Only her back had suffered less, and thankfully so, for he didn't think he could bear propping her prone body up again and working his hands across her mutilated skin.

It was highly apparent that his few small jars of antibiotic ointment were nowhere near enough to cover the expansive burns, so he was forced to improvise. Once she was adequately dried (and had soiled all of his available towels, he packed her raw flesh with sugar and wrapped every inch of her with whatever cloth there was available. The gauze was spent early on in the procedure, so the bed would have to go without sheets for a while until he could get out to purchase bandages from the hospital's medical storehouse.

Well, 'purchase' was a loose term.

The tub was still in the process of draining when a series of thumps sounded at his door. The man outright scowled. There was only one man who could possibly be at his threshold, and he happened to be that much more irritating for it. He shook his head and ignored the intermittent noise for a full thirty minutes while he carefully splinted and elevated Christine's limp limbs to prevent swelling and contracture.

 _Thumpthumpthumpthump-_

Unwilling to let the din continue, he unbolted the heavy door and shoved it open. Before him stood the Persian he both depended on an couldn't stand. "Khan. I suppose I have you to thank for news of the situation."

Nadir Khan sighed. "Yes, and if you'd get around to thanking me so I may enter, I'd appreciate it."

He couldn't see it, but the taller man's skepticism was clear. "Who said you may enter?"

Khan ignored the cynical jab and peered around his friend's thin frame. "Is she in there?"

"What do you think?" The Persian made a move to enter and was blocked rather swiftly. " _Ahem_ , I believe a gentleman would wait outside for the lady. As you know, she's a bit indisposed."

"Damn you, Erik, I just want to see how she is!" the agitated man growled. He shifted back and forth trying to see over the obstacle before him.

"She's not well, if you were wondering," the man said with his stubborn dryness. "Now go away; there is work to be done." Unfortunately, the usual glare from his catlike eyes was unable to budge his insistent visitor- or intruder, as far as he was concerned.

Nadir crossed his arms and huffed mightily, as if he might blow the door down like a wolf out of a fable. "At least tell me if there's anything she needs- medical supplies, food and the like. I don't imagine you'll want to leave her side for the next week."

Erik frowned. What little of his mouth was visible twitched. "If you're so eager to help, get me as much gauze and clean linen as you possibly can, at least a liter- no, two liters- of antibiotic ointment, and half a wheelbarrow of high-grade granulated sugar. And pay the boys who heat my water." Nadir hemmed and hawed a bit, mumbling something about extra expenses. "I never said you had to pay for it," Erik clarified. "I assure you, I will reimburse your expenditures."

"You're a sorry bastard, you know that?" the Persian said with a look full of pity.

"Get out," the phantom hissed, "before I behead you with your own watch chain."

Despite his confidence that Erik would not actually resort to anything more than a black eye, Nadir backed away and trotted out to the riverbank. It seemed he had shopping to do.

…

Christine opened her mouth before her eyes. When she did, it was to ingest broth and mildly sweetened tea through her badly chapped lips. Someone had kindly smeared an oily substance over the cracks, which soothed the burning somewhat. She decided to open her eyes later, when her head stopped swimming and her limbs weren't so heavy. _I'll open my eyes when I'm not going to die._

The next time she moved it wasn't of her own will. What felt like only hours later, strong arms lifted her from her place, undid her wrappings, and placed her in a warm bath. She was too tired to panic, and her eyelids were still too swollen to see anything much, but…

From the delicacy with which her caretaker handled her, she had a good idea of the person's identity. Three times a day, he fed her broth, gruel, a few bites of stew, and a whole two cups of tea and milk. Twice a day, he changed her bedpan, since she was immobile and had no choice but to soil the sheets. Once a day he bathed her, rinsed the sickly-sweet ointment and sugar from her, and redressed her wounds. Countless times he stretched and manually exercised her joints and muscles, moving them himself if she was too tired to muster up a bit of strength.

Still she closed her eyes, even when they no longer hurt and the swelling had gone. He never said anything, and neither did she. It was childish, but often she imagined that if she pretended, nothing existed. She wasn't confined to a bed, or burned, or hurting so badly that she was almost willing to request more ether. She wasn't being intimately attended by a figure of guilt that tormented her dreams.

There was simply…nothing.

At least, there was nothing but oblivion until her next meal, or the next unceremonious shift of the mattress, or her next bath.

But after the first week, boredom took its toll and she pried her eyelids open to roll her eyes about at the same four walls she'd seen again and again. They were plain, grayish stone, but with the candles burning constantly about her they appeared a warm, almost reddish color. To her left, there was a plain dresser and predictably no mirror. Her few handfuls of belongings had been placed, untouched in their little bag, in the center of the surface.

Well. He'd touched every part of her by now, but still provided what little privacy he could.

On the eighth morning, when he entered quietly with a bowl of oats and milk, she looked at him for the first time since her arrival. Her voice, unused but for the occasional cry of pain, made an awful clicking, croaking sound when she opened her mouth. "Eri-… Erik."

He stopped just short of the foot of the bed, jaw only slightly tighter than usual. He'd foregone his black wig, so what little hair he possessed stuck up like tendrils of fine, dry grass. Even through the daze of painkillers, Christine saw the tension in his eyes. Without a word, he sat beside the bed for the twenty-second time, filled the large soup spoon with porridge, and held it to her mouth.

Obediently, she swallowed down the honey-sweetened concoction, watching all the time. He refused to make eye contact, however, and the meal passed in relative silence. Then he left, and she remained abed, listening to the sounds of his movement about the house. Her imagination pictured him sweeping, washing, preparing her next meal and hopefully his own. With the door closed, she couldn't watch him go about his business, but sounds filtered through and provided stimulation for her otherwise inactive brain.

It took another eight hours and another meal before Christine finally spoke more than one word. He'd come in to change the bedsheets and the pan under them again almost as if she weren't there.

"Erik…why don't you look at me?" She turned about for a better angle.

He still did not meet her eyes. "I have looked at you. I daresay I've looked at you far too much in the past week," he asserted coldly. With that, he whisked the dirty bedding from under her, replaced the pan and blankets, and left the room.

Christine swallowed hard and blinked, eyes stinging with salty tears. She knew she deserved that coldness and worse. He saved her life, and it ate at her conscience that she'd not uttered a word of thanks. She resolved to thank him profusely the next time he came, even if she had to verbally grovel. After everything she'd done to him, he deserved that much.

…

Just outside the now closed bedroom door, Erik clutched at the front of his shirt as if it choked him. _She remembers my name._ Yes, he supposed the incidents of the months prior were fresh in her mind, but that she remembered his name and willingly called him by it…

He forced his lungs to suck in a deep breath, unsure if the tightness in his chest was elation, fear, or relief. There in the silence of his catacomb hideaway, his heart pounded louder than it had for weeks on end. He almost wanted to extinguish all his lamps in an attempt to forget her searching azure stare.

He surveyed his little front room, and still was unable to escape. In one corner sat piles of sugar sacks. On the table were the jars of ointment the Persian bought at his request, partitioned into smaller containers for convenience. The kitchen just beyond smelled of chicken broth and steamed vegetables. Even the pianoforte had not escaped the change just one woman brought, for its closed lid now served as a hanging place for freshly washed linens and sterilized bandages.

Suddenly exhausted, Erik let his legs fold under him to sit on the cool floor. His objective in every hour was to rehabilitate her and let her go to live her life, to watch until he died. But with just one look, she compromised his every motive. In one moment, he knew he wanted her to stay, to interact with, even if only in passing.

But how could he keep her? Was it right to let her suffer the slings and arrows of a world whose only idol was beauty? The burns to her body were not going to heal prettily, or be concealed easily. Once she managed to stand and move on her own, she'd have the power to leave him alone again, with his halfhearted heartbeats and shallow breaths to keep his body functioning.

He tilted his head back just to feel cool air flowing in his throat. His chest expanded to fill again with breath. Saving a life would make his own life worth something. Because of Christine, he had to endure. If she abandoned him he would guard her every day, albeit from a distance. If she returned to the upper class of Paris to love and to marry, he would ensure her happiness and that of her family. And if, in the smallest of suppositions, she stayed… If she stayed _with him_ … Living suddenly didn't seem so bad.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Erik entered her room, it was for lunch. Her face stung and probably looked awful, but Christine opened her mouth anyway. The cottony gauze taped across her head obstructed her view somewhat, but she saw him tense as he carried the tray to the dresser, placing it carefully by the items she'd salvaged.

At first she struggled for words, but it occurred to her that a proper greeting might break the ice. "Good afternoon, Erik," she said, then winced. She still sounded like wire bristles on a washboard.

Erik blinked in surprised, and actually looked her in the eyes. "Good afternoon, Christine." Then he proceeded to fill her mouth with spoonfuls of soup in quick succession. She wondered if he were feeding her fast so she couldn't speak between swallows. At last, he came to the separate plate of blanched vegetables. Here he paused to slice the pieces into bite-sized chunks, so she seized the opportunity to speak.

"Thank you, Erik. I don't know why you've done this for me, but one day I hope I can repay you for everything- for saving my life." Her throat tightened with emotion at the last words. At least her voice functioned better after the healthy dose of soup. "And- and though it is unlikely, I…" She trailed off when she realized he held a forkful of turnip to her lips. The look he gave her left no room for argument. In retrospect, that golden glare always had some sway over her. Obediently, she averted her eyes and took the food in, chewed and swallowed. By the time she had done so, he already had another bite ready, hovering inches from her face.

This time she protested. "Erik, if I mean anything to you at all, let me apologize!"

He recoiled with a snarl. "Why? So you can feel better about your abject betrayal? So you can comfort yourself with the thought that you've said sorry to poor Erik? Is this your way of paying rent to your savior? Well, just lull your angel into security so you can up and leave once you're well enough!"

The words would have been beautiful if they hadn't been spit with venom in every syllable. Christine swallowed back a quiet sob, biting her still-raw bottom lip to keep it still. Tears did no good now, when there was nowhere to go aboveground or below. She tucked her chin to her chest as best she could, but guilt still tore at her throat.

Erik stopped, suddenly. His normal poise returned, eyes closed for a heartbeat while he breathed. When he opened them again, no trace of virulent anger remained. Christine glanced upwards. _It is as if he wears two masks. I am unsure if it is worse to witness the material unmasking or the immaterial._ Composure regained, he picked up the bit of food and again held it to her mouth.

She passed the next half hour swallowing down her tears with her food. Then he changed the sheets again and was gone. She sat and contemplated, and regretted, and pondered.

Three hours before what her internal clock deemed dinnertime, Christine flexed what muscles she could and resolved to stand. Despite having spent the past week in a drugged daze, she knew Erik bathed her and changed her bandages every day, applying ointment and something gritty and sweet-smelling as he went. _This time I will walk to the washroom and bathe and dress myself!_

Pain lanced through her legs as she shifted them over the piles of pillows and over the edge of the bed. She gritted her teeth as the remnants of her skin protested mightily, resisting the movement. _I_ will _stand_. _I will!_ For a whole week, Erik had waited on her literally hand and foot and everywhere else. The least she could do was show some initiative in her own recovery.

Now that she considered it, he really had waited on her for far longer. For those three weeks when he kept her in his lair (that was such a dramatic word; she preferred to call it a house), and even before then, he had always been her servant in some way or another. She had come to know him as both servile and possessive, affectionate and calculating. After that night he threw himself at her feet and kissed the hem of her garments, she fought down the initial revulsion his unmasked face caused. At times it frightened her how easy it was to recall that deathly visage, but that great sadness in his eyes grasped her own heart.

He had done everything for her. She owed him any successes she had in the past, and now she owed him a life-debt.

Sitting up was a challenge. The ointment kept her healing skin flexible enough that she could bend, but after lying prone for days on end, using any strength at all took conscious effort. She did her best not to think of her front, where the fire had done the most damage. At last, her feet touched the cool floor and slipped a bit. Had Erik spent time polishing his floors to perfect smoothness? In spite of herself, she smiled. The idea of Erik down on his hands and knees with wax and a rag was almost fitting, given his love of cleanliness.

The dresser served as a temporary crutch on the way to the door. Unfortunately, it left her to support herself a good five feet from the entrance. She reached for the doorknob, bandages taut. Every inch of her burned as she stretched against the straight rods of splints, prompting more tears. _Just a bit further…_

Her splinted fingers lost their grip on the corner of the bureau and she pitched forward, hitting the ground with a slap and a pained cry. Her few belongings tumbled down with her, the contents of the satchel spilling over.

…

Erik was in the kitchen, cooking again. While the smell of food tempted him, he reserved his own small portions for after Christine supped. He never had much of an appetite, but wasting food didn't appeal to him either. At any rate, constantly cooking forced him to eat regularly. _Caring for an invalid has made me positively domestic._ He snorted at the idea: the most famed assassin of the Turk empire, reduced to chopping vegetables and taste-testing consommé.

A cry and a thump sounded from the bedroom. Immediately, he dropped his knife and carrots and rushed to fling open the door. His heart wouldn't stop its infernal speeding pace and seemed to leap into his throat.

What he saw literally floored him. There was Christine, sprawled out with vaguely familiar papers littered about, crying on the black stone floor. In several places her bandages were stained red with fresh blood. In an instant, he was down with her, grasping her forearms to lift her up. "Christine!"

A mix of tears and blood dampened the gauze over her cheeks.

"Christine, what were you thinking?!" Alarm quickly turned anger. "You could have- you could have seriously injured yourself! What if you had fallen backwards instead of forward?" He forced himself to loosen his grip lest he hurt her further. Alarm returned when she only began to cry harder. Unsure how to handle the situation, he carried her back to the bed and set her down again. With trembling hands, he knelt again to pick up her spilled items- and froze.

Those papers his mind skipped over were suddenly very, very important.

A personalized score of his brainchild, _Don Juan Triumphant_ , fluttered under his shaky fingers. All of Christine's parts, her entrances and exits, every word penned in his favorite red ink. _She kept this?_ There were even notes he'd written in as he taught it to her, knowing intimately where she should breathe, how long a note she was able to hold, what choreography to use to optimize both drama and music.

Christine was still hiccuping softly when he set the music to rights and left it on the bureau. His throat tightened as he looked her over. In the back of his whirling thoughts, he noted that he'd have to remove his mask and wipe his face later. His cheeks were most uncomfortable when damp.

He turned to leave. He needed time, he needed space to think-

"Erik w-wait!" Like a puppet on a string, he stepped back. "Please… please-" she said. _Is…is she actually begging?_ "Don't hate me. I'm sorry, I…" Here she began to sob anew. "I'm so sorry, Erik, don't- don't hate me…please…" She might as well have played a love song on his heartstrings, the way she tugged them. "I wanted to do something. I wanted to make it easier for you."

 _Oh, Christine, I could never hate you._ The usually eloquent man found himself unable to speak. Instead he took his handkerchief from where it sat in his vest pocket, sat on the edge of the bed, and dabbed her bright blue eyes dry. His own hands were skeletal and discolored, but as she looked up at him, sniffling, he swore he'd never seen anything so beautiful as those bits of sky set in her otherwise ruined face.

His fingers lingered under her chin- almost a lover's caress. All she had do to was ask, and he was helpless before her. She asked forgiveness and had it in a moment.

A cotton-wrapped hand touched his. Unsure if her still clumsy digits wanted to hold or push him away, he withdrew. "Please excuse me," he muttered quietly. "I- I'll be back once the bath is ready."

He left the room. A few seconds later, Christine heard the bathroom tap running to fill the tub.

…

The warm water ran loud enough that the washroom echoed. Just as well- it hid the sound of Erik's own quiet swearing. He cursed fate, he cursed the apartment fire, he cursed the Persian for bothering to contact him, and he cursed himself for being so damnably vulnerable. One little pout and Christine had him on his knees, just like before.

Upon seeing her burns for the first time he'd expected his attraction to her to fade. Instead he was beginning to realize that her every hurt was his own.

He contemplated dosing her with another spoonful of ether just to get through bath time and a bandage change. However, it wasn't medically necessary and he did hate to risk getting Christine addicted to the narcotic. He just wasn't sure how much more weeping he could stand.

Just as before, he sunk three towels under the warm water to prop her head up. The idea of bathing a fully conscious Christine sounded less appealing the more he thought about it, but it had to be done if she was to heal properly. As a defensive measure, he steered his mind toward the scientific; she could apply the ointment, but she'd certainly require his assistance for more delicate matters. For instance, packing sugar into the deep burns all over her front and legs was painful.

 _I suppose I shall have to invest in some syringes and pipettes._

…

Having washed Christine and changed the linens, Erik ventured outside for a breath of fresh air- well, as fresh as Paris' armpit could get. As it happened, Paris' backstreets were riddled with vermin. The path to the hospital was a dirty one, since it went past the backs of restaurants and through the slums.

Upon reaching said slums, a dirty-faced boy scampered up, unshod feet slapping the cobblestones. He looked up at Erik with an unafraid gaze and held out his hand. Wordlessly, the shadowy man slipped a few large notes into the boy's palm, expecting him to scamper off again and split the money with the two others who heated his water. Instead, the child blinked, pouted, and reached into his one ragged trouser pocket.

Instinctively, her tensed. From the pocket emerged a small, wriggling, black _thing_. Behind the mask, he raised one brow. What did the urchin expect?

He soon found out. The boy help the pitiful creature out to him, and his other empty hand. Erik narrowed his eyes and tipped his head to the side. Did this boy actually expect more pay? Perhaps it was to feed the pet he now kept.

The boy waved his hand a little more insistently. Yes, he really did want money. _I suppose it does no harm._ He took out another bill and a few coins and plunked them into the child's palm. To his surprise, the little creature was thrust at him. Somewhat perplexed, Erik took hold of the squirmy thing- and by the time he'd discerned that it was an infant cat that he held, the boy was running away, back into the shadows.

Much to his discomfort, the kitten _mewled_.

He held it up to inspect it more closely and found it was a female, barely old enough to open her eyes.

Well. _I suppose I do need some way to deal with the rodents that sneak in from the river._ With little hesitation, he tucked the kitten down the front of his shirt, assured it would stay warm there. Perhaps Christine would appreciate companionship other than his own. After all, it couldn't be terribly exciting to stare at a stone ceiling all day.

With the little animal safely hidden away, he continued on his route to the hospital. It was washing day, and nice clean sheets would be set out to dry within easy reach. Then he could visit the supply closet for more cotton and gauze strips. He found himself requiring far more linens than normal now that Christine was there to bleed on them occasionally.

He proceeded towards the hospital, lost in thought. For the first time in his life, he had a woman waiting for him at home. It was turning out to be a less pleasant experience than he'd imagined, what with the serious burns and emotional distress.

Christine begged him not to hate her. Did she care what he thought? _Of course she does_ , he snorted. _Her wellbeing depends on it._ And yet… Christine was not a manipulator. For as long as he'd known her, he knew she was as genuine as they came. That she begged him also implied she regretted her choice to leave him. Then there was the score she'd so carefully kept all those months- yes, the evidence in his favor was piled high. Still, he dared not hope for some sort of bond to develop, not after all they'd done to each other. They might be amicable housemates, at the most.

The salvaged pages of _Don Juan Triumphant_ spoke volumes of what she thought. In her haste, she had taken only the items most precious to her, and his handwritten score was one of them. She saved a memento of a time he was close to her, her cherished instructor and her angel in human form. Unfortunately, he had dashed that image to pieces with his own hands. Then what did she think of him now?

He thumped a fist against the wall in frustration. All he discerned from his reflections was that she thought of him. Did she think of him in a positive light, or did she merely pity him? And why did he care? Of course, his feelings for the woman remained immutable, but if there was nothing between them, why bother pondering the issue?

When he reached the hospital's back doors he was met with yet another, even less convenient surprise than the kitten. "Khan," he acknowledged. "Don't you have anything better to do than following me about? Word on the street is you work for the Ottoman embassy now."

The man shuffled his feet uncomfortably, never having been the patriotic sort, especially with the decline of the empire. "A clerical job, to pay rent and the like. However, I didn't tail you all the way out here on a cold night to tell you about my career."

"Ah," Erik mocked concern, "I would ask you to tell, but your messenger boy has already told me quite enough. Christine is convalescing, is she not? I believe your work, Daroga, is done here." Nadir frowned.

"I have no doubt you will give her excellent care, Erik. At the moment, I'm more concerned about you."

He scoffed. "What, you're suddenly worried I'll catch a cold? I don't get colds. I'm a bit too dead to catch the diseases of the living."

"I wouldn't call Christine's close proximity to you a joking matter," his tentative friend prodded, "especially since you'll have to make intimate contact with her in order to tend to her wounds." Dead serious, the masked man glared.

"Despite what you may think, I am not mad. I have full control of my faculties and have resolved myself to leave off the idea that a bond between myself and her is possible."

The kitten down his shirtfront chose that moment to make itself known with a hungry mewl. Erik froze, feeling the little thing's claws hooked into the skin of his chest as she poked her head through the space between his dress shirt buttons. He growled as Nadir's face lit up, eyes ready to crinkle with mirth.

"Perhaps not, but it appears you've bonded with something else."

"That is incorrect. I was coerced into buying her, and will henceforth employ her for pest control," the almighty phantom huffed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have linens to steal."

The Persian rolled his eyes. "At least pay for them. And reimburse me for everything I sent you." He reached towards Erik's chest to pet the ebony-coated kitten, but halted when it hissed and swiped at his hand with needle-sharp claws. "Ouch!" He withdrew his fingers, now beaded with blood.

Erik nodded rather smugly. "I do like this cat; she already takes after me."


	3. Chapter 3

Unsurprisingly, Nadir insisted Erik pay for the filched linens. Also unsurprisingly, Erik instead deducted the required monies from the amount he owed Nadir for the wheelbarrow of supplies. "The nuns receive more than enough in donations, but if you insist I pay for your moral quibbles, I might as well pay with your money," he said. Nadir grumbled, but eventually went along with it, having been outwitted for approximately the thousandth time in the years they'd known each other.

With new sheets safely folded away under his cloak, Erik made to return underground, and he would have if not for the irritating Persian's next words. "Erik… Is it a trick of the light, or have you put on weight in the last week?"

"What?" He whirled about, eyes flashing dangerously. The kitten down his shirt protested the motion with a yowl and a sudden dig of claws. He twitched, not liking the feel of sharp things on his skin. "I thought you knew better than to mention my appearance, you uncivilized-"

"You look better."

He blinked suspiciously. "…Better? Impossible," he said flatly.

"Well, you do," Nadir said haltingly. Then he grinned, having hit upon the reason for his friend's weight gain. "I suppose being around Christine does you some good after all, albeit in a roundabout way. Good evening to you." He tipped his ruddy astrakhan cap and strode off, whistling happily.

Erik glared after him. "I've no idea what you're on about, Khan!" he called.

"Keep eating!" the daroga-turned-clerk shouted back with more jollity than was appropriate. He huffed and turned back towards his underground home. Honestly, sometimes that little prick had the strangest ideas.

…

Christine was sitting by the unlit hearth when he returned, bedclothes under his arm. He frowned. On one hand, he was glad she had regained some mobility. On the other hand, he wished she'd chosen a better place to sit: the settee, or even the piano bench rather than the hard brick of the fireplace. In all her bandages, she resembled one of those embalmed Egyptians. She looked up when he entered, hopeful. _I doubt any of the Egyptians had beautiful blue eyes as she does._ That painful twist in his chest intensified.

Then her expression changed from hope to worry, and he panicked. She lifted herself up as best she could. Erik steeled himself for a rebuke regarding his absence in the past few hours. What instead emerged from her mouth shocked him. She had a way of doing that.

"Erik, you're bleeding!" He looked down at his shirt, perplexed, to find that he had, in fact, bled a few drops on the white of his dress shirt. "And what's that in your shirt?" Suddenly she shied away. Their earlier exchange had been tense.

But, since he so wanted to see her smile, he reached down into his shirt and lifted the kitten out by the scruff. Christine's scabby eyelids widened with her soft gasp. Then, to Erik's amazement, she let out a soft _squeal_. His mouth twisted with confusion. He was quite certain he'd never taught her to make a sound like _that_.

He set the small thing down on the bricks, right near Christine's hand. "Did it scratch you very badly? Maybe you should put a bit of plaster on it."

"I'm not bleeding now," he pointed out. "Now, I believe it is time for your dinner." The kitchen provided him an escape from further conversation, other than a request for milk on the kitten's behalf. While she was occupied with the tiny kitten, he spooned out a bowlful of stew for her. As an afterthought, he included a second mug of milk on the dinner tray. Black tea wasn't a beverage that induced sleep in most people.

Christine hadn't moved when he returned. He supposed she was unable, being so thoroughly bound in bandages. She was, however, holding the kitten to her chest with tender smile. Erik swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry, and wished he'd brought the tea anyway- for himself. At any rate, he was pleased to see she had regained some movement.

He couldn't set the tray down on the floor, so he sat down next to Christine and held the spoon out to her handle first. "If you can move, you can eat," he said brusquely, unsure how to act with so many unfinished words between them.

She glanced at him quickly, then turned aside, raw mouth twisting with worry. "Erik…do you hate me?" He gaped at her for a moment, spoon still suspended. How could he possibly hate her? She continued: "I…I put you through so much hurt, those months with the Vicomte, because I was afraid. I wouldn't blame you if you sent me back to the street to die for my fear."

He placed the spoon in her palm and gulped back his own nerves. "I do not hate you, Christine. After all, you chose the scorpion. You have been forgiven for a long time." That was right, she had; she had still chosen him in all his madness. He had given her the grasshopper, the option of leaving it all in flames, but she had chosen him. For that, he let her go. He could almost smile at the irony. Now fire had brought her back to him.

His hand lingered for a moment on her own. Then, as if remembering himself, he pulled back. The neglected kitten made a sound unusually loud for its body size. "Forgive me; I've let the cat go hungry." Its eyes reflected the ambient candlelight like new pennies. Without further delay, he took it into his hands and dabbed the milk on its mouth.

As it lapped the liquid from his finger, Christine's expression softened. "Cherry," she remarked suddenly.

Erik eyed her, bewildered. "I do not have cherries, Christine. They're not in season." Indeed, peak cherry season was summertime for France. However, being on speaking terms with his beloved was a relief, so if importing cherries from the southern hemisphere pleased her, he would gladly do so.

"Well, we need a name for her. We can't very well keep calling her 'the cat.'" She mused on this for a moment. "She has very striking eyes, don't you think?"

 _Oh._ "They're…certainly uncommon." He hadn't looked very closely at the kitten's eyes, but he knew enough about cats to know their eyes were usually light blue or green at birth and gradually changed to brown, amber, or a darker green-yellow. "I doubt she will appreciate being called a fruit."

"Then what would you suggest?"

He picked the little cat up by the scruff and inspected it as if appraising an antique or a prized piece of livestock. "Ahmar." The thing had somehow gotten milk on its paws and both its ears. With one bony fingertip, he made to wipe away the mess, but it seized his finger with its paws and gnawed on it. Christine laughed.

"And what does Ahmar mean? It sounds foreign."

"'Red,' in the language of the Arabs. I must confess, I am more fluent in Persian, though I take a scholarly interest."

"You know Persian?" Her eyes widened.

"My dear, I've lived among them. It would be rather hard not to learn the language." The endearment had slipped out like a reflex. He glanced at her and set the kitten down to explore its new surroundings. "Don't look at me like that; your bandaging will slip off." Her infernal curiosity piqued, he attempted to stave off the upcoming flood of questions.

By some stroke of luck, she did not ask what he'd done in the east. Instead, she asked about the weather, the people, the food and traditions he experienced. Together they sat, her eating slowly, listening with rapt attention and making amiable conversation. By the time her head nodded with sleep, he had told her things that would make her dreams would swirl with images of the deserts, bazaars, and people dressed in many-colored robes. He had even told her of his job as an architect, omitting the violence and coercion.

He had gone through agony during his time in Persia. His own dreams were dark, but Christine deserved only the best of his memories, few as they were. That part of his life had ended when he settled in Paris. She didn't know it, but she was his beginning. Erik allowed himself a fond smile as he picked her up and carried her back to the bed.

…

Christine's dreams were not about the foreign land of Persia, but of her old apartment. It was grayer than she remembered, and smelled of ash. She couldn't breathe. Fire all around ate at her, grabbed at her clothes and hair. The wood beneath her feet glowed and shattered into a million tiny embers, and she fell into the darkness-

And bolted upright with a cry, heart thudding. Then the pain from her sudden movement set in and she hissed out a hard breath. When she sucked in air again, and came out in return was an agonized moan. There in the dark, she clutched the pillows around her, shuddering. _Fire…and it was burning_. In the back of her mind, she knew fire wasn't anywhere near her, and she was being cared for. A stone cave by a river couldn't possibly catch on fire.

More of those blasted tears coursed down her cheeks, stinging her healing wounds. The door opened, and Erik entered with a candle in hand, clad in his evening silks. Christine let out a terrified sound, half-sob, half-scream, and squeezed her eyes shut. She heard him shuffling back. "Erik, wait!" He stopped.

"Please," she sniffled, "don't leave. Don't leave me alone." With a sigh like wind, he came closer to her trembling form. "It's not you- it's the candle. Blow it out, please!" A moment passed. His soft footsteps neared the bedside.

"It is extinguished, Christine. What do you require?" His voice floated over her, soothing her fears, but she still shivered like a spiderweb in a gale. When she opened her eyes and found no light but Erik's gold cat-eyes, she reached out and clutched his arm. He tensed, but she insisted on pulling him closer.

Finding himself very awkwardly leaned over the pillows, he adjusted so he sat on the edge of the mattress. "Would you…" She hesitated. "Would you hold me?" Before she'd finished speaking, his thin arm was around her, simply resting on the surface of her many layers of cotton. Christine felt her breathing slow and her tremors lessen. Erik was warmer than the surrounding chill. It was very nice to be hugged. Even when her eyes closed again in sleep, he kept holding her, bandages and all. After all, she'd never said to release his embrace.

…

When she woke, Erik was nowhere to be seen. She opened her eyes, however, to crumpled sheets beside her: evidence that he'd been there. There was only one candle in the room, recently lit. Her nightmare faded, she pushed herself up from the bed with more ease than before and scooted her legs to the side.

Once her feet touched the floor, she hesitated. Her last attempt to walk had ended in failure, and Erik was upset. Perhaps moving about on the floor was the better option, since there was no risk of falling. _But if I never try, I'll never walk._ Her legs clenched at the thought. _Maybe leaning on the bed would serve me better_ , she surmised. With some difficulty, she gripped the blankets and let herself lean on the bed frame.

The flush of success washed over her as she limped all the way from one side of the bed to the other, towards the wardrobe in the corner. After eight days of being dressed only in bits of cotton sheets, she decided it was time to put on a bit of real clothing. A robe was better than nothing. Thankfully there was one such robe hung up in the closet, a black one that trailed behind her as she went. _It rather looks like one of Erik's capes_.

Clutching the grooves in the wall, she moved carefully to the door and pulled it open. Darkness met her eyes, except for one lone flame on the kitchen table. Beneath it was a note. It took some doing, but eventually she made it to the chair and picked up the paper. With a smile, she realized he still wrote in red.

 _Dear Christine,_

 _I've taken the day to inquire about alternative lighting, since fire doesn't seem to agree with your recovery. An acquaintance of mine, M. Khan, will attend to you today. Perhaps you remember him. Please do not hesitate to tell me should his culinary attempts be unsatisfactory or his behavior untoward in any way. I will return before dinner, so you need not worry. If you feel so inclined, there are dressing gowns in the bureau and books in the trunk under the pianoforte. M. Khan can do the heavy lifting for you._

 _Yours, as always, Erik._

There was a postscript added to the note, but it had been scratched through, as if he wanted to say more and hesitated. She had no time to think of it, however, because the door opened with a creak, and a rather short man (or was she just used to Erik's towering height?) with olive skin and a cylindrical red cap entered.

He was startled to see her, especially in the dark, wrapped in a black robe, but he recovered quickly and came towards her. Up close, he seemed somewhat familiar, but then she supposed it had been months since she'd last seen him. "M. Khan?

The man nodded and removed his hat, bowing slightly. "And you are Christine Daaé," he stated more than asked. He squinted about over his unhelpful spectacles. "Or at least, I could be sure of that if it were a bit brighter in here. Erik and his infernal night vision has us all groping about in the shadows," he grumbled. This extracted a startled laugh from her. Never had she heard anyone dare speak so familiarly of Erik.

"Well, if it makes you more comfortable you could light a few more of his thousand or so candles," she said, slightly more at ease. This M. Khan struck her as the kindly middle-aged sort, easygoing and pleasant company. How Erik and this man had ever struck up an agreement was a mystery. After all, he had escorted the Vicomte down to the maze under the opera.

M. Khan deftly held one candle to another, spreading a little more light in the room.

She put aside her questions until there were more lighted candles on every surface, which brought the house back to a warm glow. Then, she waited a bit longer at the table, sitting far from the flames, while the man clanked about in the kitchen preparing a simple porridge. _Erik is much less clumsy. When he cooks I hear much less banging and rustling._

To occupy herself, she looked about for the kitten Ahmar. The little creature had disappeared into the many layers of shadow about the room. When M. Khan emerged with a bowl of scrap meat mixed with a generous portion of cream, however, she came out of hiding and tackled the meal rather clumsily. The man chuckled and attempted to scratch the cat's head, but was swatted away with unsheathed claws.

"My, my- such a troublemaker!" Christine accepted her bowl from him, and because her fingers were still splinted, gulped the starchy substance directly. Apparently nightmares left her hungry. At last, she was able to ask her burning questions.

"So, M. Khan- how is it that you are in Erik's employ, despite- well, everything?" He knew what events she referred to. He gave a long sigh and set down his spoon.

"I am not in his employ, even if we do exchange a bit of money now and then." He adjusted his glasses with a slight smile.

"Oh! Forgive me, I didn't know," she apologized, ducking her head. The man found some humor in her assumption, however. Christine found she was glad for his casual attitude.

"I don't blame you for asking, though. The stubborn bastard won't admit we're friends after all these years. And please, call me Nadir." At this, her mouth fell open slightly. Not only was M. Khan Erik's direct opposite in terms of disposition, he wasn't at all afraid to speak of him negatively- or was it positively? She wasn't quite sure.

"Er- well, Nadir," she sounded out the unfamiliar name, "I'm afraid I have very little context as to your acquaintance with Erik." Suddenly breakfast was far less interesting.

"Ah, he hasn't talked about me, has he? Suffice it to say we met long ago, under…strange circumstances." Here she noticed a slight lilt to his tone. While his French was near perfect, it was clear that his speech patterns were influenced by a non-Western origin. _I wonder…was he the one to teach Erik Persian?_

"Strange circumstances? Of what sort?" She tilted her head to the side as she often did, in confusion. "They must have been very strange indeed. Erik doesn't seem the sort to have a friend as straightforward as you." Nadir laughed.

"Erik doesn't seem the sort to have friends, period! But," he said more seriously, "I believe that if Erik wishes to tell you of his circumstances, he will. It is not my place to reveal something he might wish to keep private." He scraped up the last of his gruel and swallowed it. "Now, how would you like to pass the time? A book? A game of cards, perhaps?" Christine acquiesced, but even with Nadir's witty conversation, she couldn't help but wonder. Her Erik had always been her teacher and confidant, but he never told her where he came from or what he did before the opera. With every question the Persian man avoided, two more grew in the back of her mind. Her caretaker would have much to explain upon his return.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik returned just before dinner, as promised, with a crate under his arm. Upon pushing open the heavy door, soft light and laughter filtered through. It was brighter than he'd left it, but since it was Christine's laughter he heard she mustn't've been distressed. He entered to see Nadir at one end of the table, the lovely Christine at the other, and between them a spread of cards.

"So you see, the cards dictate that you'll live in relative peace, aside from an upcoming conflict with your…" He squinted at the card in his hand. "Yes, a conflict with your dog- or does that suit mean movement?" Christine just laughed louder.

"I'm afraid M. Khan's card-reading skills are a bit rusty," Erik said from the doorway. The Persian jumped, but to his delight Christine looked up as if she'd expected his quiet entry. "If you want an accurate reading you'll have to visit a legitimate clairvoyant, if one exists."

"And a good evening to you too," the man at the table said, slightly miffed. Erik didn't notice; he was busy taking in Christine's brilliant grin. he was sure he hadn't seen her smile like that since the old days, when he approached her under false pretenses.

"How has your day been, Christine?" he asked as he set his crate down on the table. "Has M. Khan been bothering you this whole time? Did he mangle your meals?"

She chuckled. "Not at all! Erik, I never knew you had such an interesting friend!" The table shook slightly, causing one of the candles on it to fall over. She jumped slightly, resting her hand over her heart. "Though I suppose he needs a bit more light than we do, being slightly nearsighted."

"Nearsighted?" Erik scoffed, "why, he's positively myopic. The cards clearly read that you will live rich and happy and in complete contentment." _And you will, if I have anything to say about it_. "Now, Khan, out with you," he shooed, eager to get on with dinner. As tiring as constant care was, he had missed Christine's (mostly) quiet company. "Don't you have a lady friend to see or some such outing?"

Nadir smiled at this and stood, pushing out his chair. "I do, actually." When this succeeded in shocking both girl and caretaker into silence, he continued with a smile. "Her name is Li Biyu and she's the sharpest clerk at the embassy."

"Oh, well she's obviously too smart for you, Khan," Erik taunted.

"And too beautiful as well," Nadir agreed with a sigh.

Erik and Christine exchanged a laugh with their eyes. She pursed her lips to hold back a giggle. The corner of his own mouth twitched upwards- slightly. "Well, M. Khan, perhaps I'd like to meet her someday-"

"And in the meantime, I have washing to do, so you'd best go meet your ladylove," the masked man said pointedly. Christine felt her cheeks burn. She was glad Nadir didn't know exactly what sort of washing he referred to. "As entertaining as it is to watch you mooning over a woman, I don't believe she would be very pleased to know you spent your day off with another beautiful woman."

The man set his cap back on his head and set the cards back in order. "Well, I won't linger, since you are so clearly scooting me out the door." He paused and shrugged. "Not that I completely dislike leaving, I simply-"

"For heavens' sake man, just go," Erik said, eyes glinting. "You'll make a bad impression if you're late." Nadir said his goodbyes and was indeed scooted out the door. Erik huffed and crossed his long arms. " Now then, Christine-"

"You said I am beautiful," she blurted suddenly. "Or…was that not your intention?" She gazed up at him shyly. "I do not believe I am at all pretty, not like this." He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it, considering what to say. "And I know there will be scars." Her throat constricted at the thought.

"You are always beautiful," he said at last. "My descriptors of you still stand." Her wrapped hand grasped his. He let her hold his fingers for a moment before squeezing lightly. "Yes, Christine, there will be scars. I wish I could promise you a complete healing," he mourned, kneeling before her. "But I cannot even promise that the scars will fade away."

"You descriptors should include 'scared,'" she murmured. Her eyes were watering again. When she brushed the tears away before they could reach her raw cheeks, the bandaging around her head came loose, and fell limply at her neck. Her hair was completely gone, and over what remained of her scalp stretched patches of slowly healing tissue that extended down her forehead, between those sweet blue eyes, and across her mouth. Erik knew from experience that skin never knitted together exactly the same way it lay over flesh before.

"I cannot alleviate your fears. I've never been very good at that, I'm afraid," he said quietly. Tentatively, he rested one hand on her knee. She clasped that hand as well, and he let her squeeze it tight. If she needed to hold onto something, he would give her that hold. "Please, _mon ange_ , do not weep. Only live one day at a time, and when you have healed you will find things are not so terrible as they seem now."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I believe you are stronger than you know." And he had never believed something so strongly.

…

True to her bright, normally optimistic self, Christine changed the topic of conversation. After all, they had to talk about something while he guided her to the bathtub and slowly unwrapped all her layers. The curious twist to her lips made him uneasy- whenever her mouth pursed in that particular shape, he knew a barrage of questions was coming.

Her back faced him when the first serious inquiry began. He'd removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves as usual, to let his hands gently unravel all the gauze and linen. It occurred to him that had fate been kinder, the two of them would be engaging in a different sort of disrobing. He shook those thoughts from his mind and sharpened his focus on the task at hand.

"You told me you were an architect." He swallowed. Her back's skin was still inflamed and covered in popped blisters. He'd left most of her skin on in the hope that it would reattach itself, but it was apparent that he might have to go in with the scalpel again.

"I did. Hold out your arms, please." She lifted her arms out of the way so he could access the wrapping around her torso. A shiver wracked her as cool air brushed her now uninsulated wounds.

"Nadir said you worked for the Shahanshah." He paused.

"And what did he say, exactly?" She did not turn around. _That pesky daroga always has to run his mouth, doesn't he?_

"He only said you catered to his whims…and sometimes it was dangerous." He continued in his work, a bit hurried.

"This is not suitable conversation for bath time, Christine."

"Then what is? I doubt any conversation is often involved in getting naked," she pointed out. He almost choked at her bluntness.

"I am not 'getting naked,'" he protested, stumbling over his words. "That is- I mean-" His suddenly clumsy fingers dropped the roll of collected linen on the floor, forcing him to lean down and fetch it. When he sat up again, his thoughts were a bit more organized. "Despite your somewhat off-color comments, I doubt you would appreciate my tending to you if you heard what exactly I did for the Shahanshah- besides designing him a palace, of course." He peered over her shoulder to glimpse her expression. _Perhaps an evasion might be best._ "Besides, I know little of what you've done these past months, and I've not asked. Courtesy shames prying, does it not?"

He regretted his question when her expression darkened. Obviously she wasn't eager to tell him why she was no longer engaged to the Vicomte. "I suppose I've asked too much. Forgive me."

The both stopped moving for a moment. "I'm sorry, Christine." He gulped past the familiar fear. "Might we strike a deal?" _If she will live here, with me, she should know; it is her right, even if she reviles me for it._

"What sort of deal?" She let her arms drop to cover her now exposed chest despite the fact that her back was turned to him.

"Well," he said slowly, "when you are ready, you may tell me what has transpired since the incidents beneath the opera. Then, because you have a right to know, I will divulge my own sorry story." At this she nodded.

"We have a deal." He finished undoing the bandages and lowered her into the bath where her blood tinted the warm water pink.

…

Christine's questions did not end after she was again dressed in fresh strips of linen and a robe. It was early yet, and her internal clock had grown used to the darkness, so she requested to see what was inside the crate on the table. Erik had set her on the settee, where she leaned against the cushions as if she belonged there. Ahmar was currently snoozing in her lap, belly full and coppery eyes closed.

"I have found a solution regarding lighting, for the moment." He whipped the cover off the box and lifted a heavy metal object out, along with several cords and what looked like rectangular canisters of something. "I believe you're familiar with electric lanterns and other fixtures? With the addition of the latest batteries, this 'torch' becomes the cutting edge in portable lighting." He fiddled with the wires, clamped the batteries into place, and flipped the switch, flooding the dining area with a warm yellow light. Then he waved his hands like a magician revealing some hidden gem.

Christine smiled. He cocked his head at her, straightening. "What?" In the new light his eyes didn't glow so much, but instead looked amber.

She shook her head a bit. "Nothing- you just seem so happy with it, as if it were a new toy."

"I never had toys as a child, so I'm making up for that lack of amusement now. It just so happens that mechanics intrigue me."

"Oh yes, I remember," she laughed. All his trap doors and trick floors around the theater evidenced that his genius was fueled by a fanciful imagination. Then she sighed and tipped her head back, gazing at the ceiling. "Erik, what time is it?"

"It is…" he checked his pocket watch. "It is now a quarter past nine. Why the sudden interest?" She waved a hand.

"You'll think I'm silly," she muttered dismissively.

"I never think you're silly," he said. She lifted her head to give him a skeptical look. "Very well, I sometimes think you are silly. But that's no reason not to tell me what you want, is it?" he nudged rather archly.

She just gave another sigh. "I miss the stars." Erik swore his heart melted all over again. If his love wanted to see the stars again, she would. He strode off the the bedroom. She glanced at him again. "What are you doing?" He turned back at the entrance, a smile playing at his lips.

"You'll need a good coat and boots. It's cold outside." She grinned in reply, thrilled at the chance.

A minute later he returned with said items, both black and heavy. Christine wondered if he wore anything that wasn't black besides his dress shirts. Still, excitement coiled her belly into knots; she was going outside for the first time in almost ten days. _It's a wonder I didn't go mad, cooped up underground._ "One of yours?"

He held it up, visually measuring it. "Yes. It should be short enough, with the boots." He fussed a bit, then went back into the bedroom and came back with a smaller jacket in hand, as well as thick trousers and socks. She saw he had also changed his mask from a shiny white one to a velvety black. _He doesn't know that I remember what he looks like, or that I don't mind. Maybe that will come up in time._ "Lift your legs." As she did, Ahmar stirred and meowed a bit in protest. Erik chuckled as she crawled off to a different spot on the settee, one that didn't move so much.

Once Christine was bundled up in socks, trousers, jacket, and coat, he did up the buttons for her and stepped back as if to admire his work. When she began to tip to the side under the weight, he caught her by the elbow. She smiled up at him. "Do you think you could carry me outside as well?"

"If you wish," he said a bit stiffly, "though at this point in your recovery I believe a little exercise is encouraged." She straightened her legs. After periods of inactivity her knees wobbled, not to mention the difficulty caused by still-painful openings all across her skin. Her heart warmed at his attentiveness. "If you wish, you may lean on my arm for support. I can't very well have you fall and start bleeding again."

"No, I suppose not. Shall we go?" A breath of fresh air under a night sky sounded delightful whether the stars were visible or not.

"We shall."

…

They left the river together, just two more heavily clothed people in the oncoming winter. There had been sleet the night before, which slicked the walkways with ice and forced Christine to huddle closer to Erik. He found he did not mind in the least. If it were not so cold, his fingers would have wound themselves about her smaller hands, like lovers on an evening stroll. But they were not lovers; they were an invalid and a recluse, out for an hour before their retreat to the shadows. She indulged the fantasy for a bit. Walking together in the outdoors felt natural.

Christine gazed upwards as best she could with the felt hat on her head. Erik had insisted she cover her head, both to avoid attention and to prevent heat loss. Sickness only exacerbated injuries, he claimed. She eagerly drank in the sights and sounds as they strode slowly along a small road, from the oil-fueled street lamps to the dark sky and its winking silver eyes. Her lungs filled with crisp air and the scent of pastries from a shop down the road. _We'd cause a scene if we bought from the bakery now_ , she thought. Instead of humor, sadness accompanied her realization. If she received whispers and stares with all her bandaging on, what sort of abuse might she endure once they were removed? Even an everyday activity like buying bread suddenly seemed monumentally difficult. _And this is what Erik has withstood every day of his life_.

"What troubles you, _ange_?" he queried, having picked up on her somber thoughts.

"Oh, nothing so significant. Just… One day I should like to buy pastries." They walked a few more paces, steps falling in time. Her wistfulness reminded him of his own wishful thinking as a child. Going about running errands or purchasing food hadn't been on his list of things to do when he was young.

"It is not insignificant for you to want a normal existence, especially after everything that's happened."

"But what will become of me? What will happen, once I am healed? I have no life to return to." Ice crunched beneath the oversized boots on her feet. He considered this question of the future for a good few minutes while they walked. The moon overhead was a waxing crescent, the beginning of the harvest moon's sickle in a field of stars. Would that sickle reap falling stars and grant wishes?

"That is your choice, Christine. Wherever you wish to go and whatever you wish to do, I promise I will support you. Even-" he faltered here, "even if your wish is to leave me." Sentence finished, he heaved in a breath as if it could bolster his nerve.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered out, "when will you realize? I couldn't possibly leave you, not after everything you have done for me." She patted his arm a bit to reassure him. "Even so, I do not stay out of some sense of obligation."

"Then why do you stay?" he asked warily.

"If I wanted, I could ask to stay with Meg Giry and her mother. I cannot return to the opera now," she stated very pragmatically. "I have never been so close to Meg as I think I am to you." She looked him in his golden eyes. "You have been wonderful to me across the years," she explained, and sounded much older than she was. "Now…I _want_ to do the same for you…whether you believe me or not."

A block away, a little cafe wheezed out a slow waltz. Erik felt as if all the breath in his lungs had been stolen. So, instead of speaking, he turned the hope in his heart into motion, and gently pulled Christine into the steps of a dance. To passersby they seemed odd, two figures of drastically different heights, both in trousers and heavy boots. Erik, however, kept his gaze solely on the woman he held, and her smile in the moonlight.

The waltz ended, but a long time passed before the two let go of each others' frames and hobbled back down to the Seine.


	5. Chapter 5

Li Biyu was not a woman to be played with. She had narrowly escaped foot binding as a baby and entered the best schools in China by pretending to be a boy. Then she proceeded to climb the social ladder until no one dared question her skill in academics or the combat arts. By the time it was revealed she was a girl, she was already too essential to her department to be fired for her audacity. Both her unbound feet and her sharp wit spoke one truth: she was far too busy to involve herself with any man.

Half to rid themselves of her and half because they knew she was qualified, the higher-up bureaucrats bought her a ticket to France to be trained for diplomacy. So, she found herself employed at the Ottoman embassy as a clerk- a spot below her capabilities, she thought. Still, it gave her the opportunity to become fluent in the French language. Western politics were somewhat more open-minded regarding who could work where, but as a safety measure, Biyu sat herself next to the only other non-Frenchman at the office: Nadir Khan.

Months into their work together, she allowed herself to become physically involved with him, just for an evening. It had been a satisfying night, as she let herself be the feminine creature she could never reveal during work hours. There were no promises involved on her part or his.

The next morning, as she sat herself down, Khan strode in a little quicker than normal. She raised an eyebrow at him, but he just wished her a good morning and began his paperwork. By lunchtime, however, she knew his nerves were shaken, because he avoided looking at her and seemed to be breathing manually.

"You seem very nervous today M. Khan," she commented without looking up. The documents in the Turkish language required most of her attention. He said something, but she didn't quite hear it, being occupied with her mental translations between Mandarin, Turkish, and French. At last, she glanced up. Khan stood in front of her, hands folded behind his back to keep from fiddling with them. "Pardon?"

"I, er, asked if you would share a meal with me tonight," he repeated. She pursed her red-tinted lips. _I should turn him down on principal. I did tell him that he need not get attached_. However, clerical work bored her and she hadn't had any social diversions in a while. She hadn't had any friends in a while, as a matter of fact. At the age of thirty-seven, polite society dictated that she should have been married long before now. It certainly didn't hurt that M. Khan was rather handsome as well as polite. Oh yes, she was well acquainted with his physique. "In my months here I'm afraid I haven't gotten to know you much, but…"

She translated one more sentence of the document in her head and didn't hear the rest of his sentence. _What did he say? Oh, it can't have been more important than Sino-Turkish relations._ "What time?" she asked.

"Excuse me?" For a moment the poor man looked panicked. To his credit, he recovered well. "Ah, well, I was thinking eight o'clock at L'Escargot Montorgueil. Unless you don't like snails?" This at last caused her to smile.

"I am Chinese, M. Khan. Do not people say we eat anything that moves?"

His eyebrows rose slightly. "So…is that a confirmation?" Her smile just widened as she returned her gaze to the papers before her.

…

Erik glared at the kitten that now sat very innocently on the kitchen counter. "You eat my food, you sleep on my settee _and_ on Christine's bed, and what do I get? A puddle of feces!" Ahmar shifted her tiny paws and yawned, showing off her white teeth and barbed tongue. After the accident he set up a box filled with sand in the washroom where the cat might bury its leavings. The infuriating creature was not at all troubled by his scolding.

"Erik, she's just a baby. I've heard that if you just put her in the box, she'll go by herself," Christine called from the table. The electric lamp was now suspended above her with a pulley he had set up during the night.

"Yes, well, I paid for a premium mouser, not a layabout," he muttered. Ahmar licked her chops and lay down. She folded her paws beneath her with the smug contentment cats have when they succeed in annoying their owners. _If I put her in a box with a mouse, maybe that will trigger her hunting instincts- if she has any._

"You should eat before your lunch gets too cold," Christine warned. In the past few days her fingers had healed enough to be freed from their splints, so now she ate without his assistance. She still required him to support her from place to place, her legs being painful and still slightly inflamed, but she was making good progress.

Every bit of her healing made Erik more apprehensive. In the months ahead, would she decide she was well enough to leave? Since the night before he had run her words through his mind countless times, memorizing her assurance that she wanted to stay with him. And this morning, another of his insecurities troubled him: eating required him to move his mask up just a bit, exposing his upper lip. Christine insisted that eating was a social activity, and that it alarmed her that he apparently never ate (which he did, but never where she could see).

She had been in his house for just under two weeks now, and already she'd gotten under his skin. Nadir's useless comment about his weight gain did not comfort him either.

He returned to the dining area and sat as she picked the spoon up and began to scoop roasted potatoes into her mouth. After a few bites, she stopped. "Erik, you're not eating."

"No," he confirmed. "I am waiting for you to finish so that by the time I lift my utensil, you will have carried your dish to the sink." He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, very aware that the length of his legs placed one of his feet just between hers.

She leaned forward with the pout she sometimes used on him in their days as student and teacher. "Please, Erik? For my peace of mind?"

"A view of my mouth as I chew will not give you peace of mind," he argued.

"I already know what you look like, and I'm quite used to it," she snapped back, pout replaced by a determined look. That stripped his conscious protests away. She was accustomed to his face? Certainly she would remember his features, but to say she was 'used to it' was to imply that it didn't bother her.

… _Highly unlikely._ But his competitive side won out over fear, and slowly, he moved the mask up half an inch and ate, staring (very well, _glaring_ ) at Christine the whole while. She stared back with a nonverbal _I told you so_ , and finished her meal as if nothing was wrong.

When he took the dishes back to the sink, he almost forgot to move the mask back into place. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like for them both to go about their daily business with no covering at all- him without his mask and her without her lengths of cotton. For a long time that had been a beautiful fantasy, but now she made him hope it was possible.

A tiny meow sounded at his elbow. He looked aside and realized that he had left Ahmar on the counter for the entire meal, and she was still too small to jump down without hurting herself. "Ah, I apologize." He picked her up in one hand and set her back on the floor, where she sat gazing up at him.

She meowed again. "What is it you want now?" Another meow. "I'm not giving you more food. You've already had your breakfast." From the table, he heard Christine giggle. Still huffy about their argument over eating, he threw his voice so it sounded as if Ahmar were speaking.

"Yes, but I want you to pick me up again," a very catty character said. Christine's laughter stopped short. He smiled to himself. She couldn't see him, but in the doorway, their kitten was in full view, tail twitching.

"Whatever for?" he asked back.

"Nothing," 'Ahmar' said. The woman at the table laughed musically.

"Tell me, Ahmar, what do you think of Christine?" The kitten tipped its head slightly.

"She gives me more food than you do."

The subject of the short 'conversation' guffawed. "Erik, stop, I know it's you!" He stepped around the corner, causing the shadowy feline to scamper away.

"But was it not entertaining?" Her eyes lit up with humor.

"It was, it was- I just don't think I could stand a talking cat for very long. She has such an attitude without being able to speak already!"

"I do not intend to let her laze about," Erik reminded her, "I intend to make a champion mouser out of her."

"Well you won't be able to force Ahmar- or scold her effectively, for that matter," she muttered through her bandages. There were other things on her mind that could not be forced either. It took an effort on Christine's part, but by dinnertime Erik agreed to eat with her at any meals he could. Maybe it would take months for him to become confident enough to remove the mask completely, but she found she did not mind the thought at all. She had time.

…

Dinnertime was different. In the few hours between lunch and the next meal, Christine practiced walking, let herself into and out of the privy by herself, and began reading through Erik's transcribed version of Verdi's _Otello_. He'd heard the opera performed numerous times at the Palais Garnier and must have transcribed it in a fit of boredom. The paper was old and somewhat yellowed, so he must have written it down years prior.

 _How many years ago? And how did he come to live under the opera?_ The more she thought about it, the more questions she had. But she could not voice those questions, even when Erik stopped by her spot on the settee to ask if she needed anything. The price of that information was for him to know her own story, and she wasn't at all eager to tell. _But if I never say anything, I will never be able to tell._

As wonderful as it was to have Erik back as her friend, they were not as close as the student and her angel had been a lifetime ago. It was natural for a rift to form between them, but she knew she could not leave their residual hurts to fester. Leaning on themselves and not each other would only bring hurt feelings and tension. The damage done months ago under the opera was still unhealed, but she knew the longer she waited, the harder it would be to speak.

So she gathered her courage and made herself ready. Erik had informed her that bath time was not an appropriate time to talk about something so heavy, so she waited until after dinner. He sat in a chair by the hearth, turned to face her so he could carry her to the bed if she fell asleep. Christine wet her lips (and winced at the resulting sting), then posed the question: "Erik, will you listen to me for a while?"

He looked up from his book. "Of course." His fingers fiddled with the next page, as if anxious to return to his reading. What could be so interesting about an analysis of old French literature, she would never know. "Is it time to tell our respective stories?" His voice trembled a bit. She revised her statement.

"Only if you wish. If I tell you what- what's happened, and you don't want to say what's happened to you, it's all right. I only feel that if I say nothing, I lie to you by omission," she explained quietly. "Never let it be said that I am not an honest woman." _And yet I am to reveal that I am not an honest woman_ , her conscience bit back at her. "Please, I beg of you, do not think differently of me after you hear everything." She swallowed hard. Without realizing it, her hands had balled into fists.

"Christine... I ask of you the same, even if it is impossible." His eyes glittered in the dimness. "And I promise, whatever you say to me now, I will not think of you as anything but who and what you are." He added most gently: "You can tell your guardian angel anything."

And with that, she squeezed her eyes shut began to whisper out her tale.

...

 _The first month at the de Chagny mansion was a pleasant one. Christine spent long hours outside in the garden, or just sitting and reading. Sometimes she sang, but never the great arias of the stage. Raoul had warned her away from such songs, just for a while, he said. His grandmother insisted that marriage to a performer was beneath the family, almost scandalous. She went along with his requests; after all, she owed it to him after he had agreed to keep their engagement a secret for half a year._

 _Christine continued to live in the big house for a month, relatively content, aside from the times when music still called in her dreams. Moving her things from her old apartment never entered her mind; she had everything she could wear and use for years to come. Raoul still planned to leave on his expedition, and was packing for the North Pole. Fleeces, boots, and long underwear filled every available space in his room. She never went in; he was going to marry her and leave, and she would wait faithfully, untouched by any other, until he returned. It was almost an inverted repeat of their childhood together._

 _At least he was until his relatives arrived for the wedding shower. They greeted her cordially enough, but each cousin, aunt, or uncle radiated disapproval as her fiancé remained oblivious and smiling. At last, Grandmother de Chagny arrived. Christine could only stand still, eyes mortified like the good Catholic girl she was supposed to be, with the old woman's eyes roving over her, the neckline of her dress, her sleeves, even the curve of her form. At last, the crone croaked out a question that both embarrassed and angered her._

 _"_ _Are you with child?" Her wrinkled mouth pursed as she glared at her grandson, who stood stiff as a wall, eyes averted and mouth similarly tight. "Because only in that situation will I allow you to wed, to avoid the shame of some bastard infant. All other current circumstances bring shame to this house no matter what he may say about being in love." She again narrowed her gaze at Christine's hot blush. "More in lust than in love, I'd say," the countess sniffed, and waddled off to the sitting room._

 _Flustered and angry, her breath quickened and her heart raced. Who was this witch who questioned her virtue? And who was she to assert that a union with Raoul was somehow dishonorable? Hot tears dripped down her cheeks, the insides of which she bit with frustration._

 _"_ _Darling? Christine, please- she was overreacting, I'm sure if we just give her some time to get used to the idea-"_

 _"_ _Time?" she burst out in a tone seething with rage. "_ Time _? All of your relatives received the news a whole month ago, both by letter and telegram! And you-" Here she nearly choked on her words. "You just stood there and let her insult me without a word. I swear, Raoul, if she weren't old and if you weren't obligated to speak for your_ fiancée _, I would have knocked her to the ground myself!"_

 _"_ _My love, please don't raise your voice," he begged, attempting in vain to placate her. "And please don't knock her down, it's not befitting of a woman of your station."_

 _And unpleasant shock rippled through her. "…Station?" The shock settled into a cold, hard thing in her guts. "You… I agreed to marry you, and now all you think of is what I'm supposed to do in my_ station _?"_

 _"_ _No- I mean, yes, it's important, but when you said yes, I thought you knew!" He was growing agitated now, running his fingers through his blond hair. "I thought you wanted this sort of life, to be a wealthy woman away from the squalor of theatre. I thought you loved me." Here he gazed back at her with a hurt expression about his blue eyes, eyes that matched hers and yet did not see as she did._

 _Christine swallowed and gritted her teeth. "I did, Raoul. And I thought being together would make us both happy." She turned around lest he see her sob. "It seems you consider others' feelings more highly than those of your betrothed." She made her way to the house's grand, gilded staircase and stomped up it. "I'll be in my room. If you have an ounce of courage in you, Raoul, you'll apologize and we will stand up to your_ family _together."_

 _Moments later, the dejected vicomte heard the bedroom door slam shut._

 _Another, more percussive sound reached his ears from the open front doors. He looked; there was Philippe de Chagny, clapping slowly with a sarcastic smile across his chiseled face. "Bravo, little brother. You've really mucked it all up this time, haven't you?"_

 _"_ _I don't have time for your wit, Philippe. I have a fiancée to make up with, if at all possible." He straightened his jacket and made for the stairs._

 _"_ _Stop where you are," Philippe said in the voice that commanded the household. Raoul froze._

 _"_ _What do you want now?" he gritted out._

 _His older brother smiled. It was not a nice smile. "I have a solution in mind that will please our dear grandmother, you, and your little singer- if you're man enough." Raoul turned around._

 _"_ _I'm listening."_


	6. Chapter 6

Christine sat with her arms wrapped around herself, eyes averted. Erik, across the room, was not close enough to hold her hand. "That evening, Raoul came into my room, and- he insisted…" She gulped hard and shivered.

Erik rose from his armchair and sat at her side. "What did he insist?" he asked in a heartbreakingly gentle voice. At the voice of her angel, she buckled.

"He insisted…that if we were to be married, it was right that he should have my body, that no one would know- except his grandmother. He said it was the only way we could be married with her consent." At last, she cried out in earnest, "And I was unable to stop him- I was too weak, and he… I am not a…an honest woman any longer. I am not _clean_." Her words dissolved into heaving sobs.

Erik's heart twisted tight in his ribcage, every beat weighed with sorrow and anger. It took him a long while to find the right words, so in the meantime he gingerly rested one black-sleeved arm around her shuddering shoulders. The bandages shifted slightly, and he pulled back, hesitant. _What if she does not want my comfort?_ But she clearly needed someone; he had sworn that whenever she needed, he would provide.

When he held her to his side, she pressed her gauze-wrapped forehead against his chest. It took a long time for him to formulate words past his own tears. "Listen to your _ange_ , Christine. This happened through no fault of your own." Not knowing how to reassure her, he stopped for several minutes, rubbing her back and shoulders while she cried her eyes dry. Her purity had always been something he loved about her, and she knew that. To every hideous flaw within him there was an antidote of love and light in her.

"It may not assure you much, but you will always be clean and lovely in my eyes," he murmured. She looked up at him, still hiccuping. How he hated the de Chagny boy! He had promised this treasure among women a life of love and happiness, and instead forced her into giving up her very body. What should have been an expression of love was now engrained in her as a monstrous, perverse act. And he couldn't even snap his neck for it; the entitled young nobleman was away on an expedition to the Arctic. _I hope he freezes to death- slowly. May the sled dogs gnaw his corpse._ The Vicomte left her wracked with fear and need.

How could he say such words of comfort with so much blood on his own hands? Simultaneously, how could he not tell his beloved Christine his past when she bared her all to him? A gentle patting at his pectoral captured his attention. Wonder of wonders, she was attempting to dab away the tears that wet his dress shirt. Her lip still trembled, her breaths still were uneven, and yet she was somehow concerned with the state of his shirt. " _Ange_ ," he breathed, this time referring to this selfless woman in his arms.

She stopped for a moment. Her little hands rested on his chest as if searching for the telltale beat of life. "Now, you know what I am and what- what was done. You know my shame."

"I think no less of you," he said. "In fact, I admire you." He let his hands cradle her head- she was so _small_ \- as she gazed up into his eyes. "You have been so brave, and so strong. I... I will do everything in my power to ensure you want for nothing all the days of your life."

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely. "Thank you, Erik."

They'd done quite a lot of holding each other in the past few days. Neither yet grew tired of tender embraces, so they kept holding on.

...

After so great a revelation, Christine seemed exhausted, so he helped her bathe and reapply ointment and sugar, and wrapped her again in bandages. The amount of linen he used was somewhat reduced, to his satisfaction; it meant that her skin was healing and the wounds had shrunk.

She was a wonder to him. The trust with which she exposed herself was amazing. Or rather, it amazed him that anyone would trust him, Erik the death's-head, with the care of their body. _Ah, but she does not know yet what horrors you have worked with these hands_ , his consciousness needled. _Then she will not let you so near_ , that inner voice taunted.

 _Quiet_ , he snapped back. _I'll attend to that issue when she asks._

His doubts continued, however. By the time Erik bundled Christine up in one of his oversized robes and carried her to the bed, her eyes were already closing. As he tucked the thick covers around her form to ensure warmth, she lifted her lids as if dreaming.

"Erik..." she yawned. "Do you...still love me?" Her hand was on his, small and warm and slightly chapped. He stilled, shocked by the question. By the time he'd worked an answer out of his stunned brain, she was fast asleep.

"Yes." He grasped her hand and dared kiss it with the utmost reverence. "I still love you." Then he withdrew from the room, mind whirling with questions. He needed time to think.

Being something of an insomniac, Erik took his thoughts out to run errands under cover of darkness. He again acquired a few more sheets from the hospital, leaving a very nice sum in exchange for them in the mailbox. Then he wandered down to the shopping district, sticking to alleys and back ways because of the general bustle.

Christine had asked if he still loved her. Granted, she had been half asleep at the time, but often the mind was more truthful in dreams. She was concerned over whether or not he loved her. Did that imply she had some sort of...feelings regarding himself? His mouth turned down at the corners with his heavy thoughts.

He was just approaching the end of another alleyway when a familiar voice reached his ears.

"Ah, yes, I believe the entrance is this way." He looked across the way. A smirk spread across his face, for there was Nadir Khan and the 'lady friend' he had mentioned, a stern-looking Asian woman with a traditional high-collared shirt. She walked beside him, but not on his arm like most Parisian ladies.

The phantom grinned. Just because he was out on errands didn't mean he couldn't cause a little mischief on the way. Besides, he needed a distraction at the moment.

...

Biyu was having a rather nice evening, which spoke volumes of M. Khan's wit and will, for she had not expected much in the way of proper courting. After all, she had skipped that step completely- why should he do any different? But he did, and speaking of non-work-related subjects proved to be both educational and entertaining for both of them. The topics rolled from politics to theatre to knife technique (Nadir had apparently been a soldier, and was no slouch even at his age).

Naturally, the conversation turned to food when dinnertime rolled around. He revealed to her the culinary traditions of his native Persia, and she told him about the seasonal dishes of Beijing. Neither had a particular fondness for French food, as in comparison it was either bland or unfamiliar to them, but garlicky snails were palatable in comparison. She made a mental note to compliment his choice of restaurant if the food proved well done.

They had almost reached the door of L'Escargot Montorgueil when M. Khan froze up, as if hit with a sudden surprise. "What is it?" she queried. He stared past her for a moment, then took off his spectacles and polished them.

"It's nothing, I just thought I recognized someone. Shall we?" He opened the door and held it open for her. _I suppose this is what Western etiquette dictates._ She entered, pleasantly surprised. After so many years doing everything herself, allowing him to hold the door was a refreshing change of pace.

The interior of the restaurant was dimly lit, with candles on every table and waiters in smart black and white uniform. The table by the corner window looked inviting, with a view of the street and extra lighting from a wall sconce. The waiter looked at her a bit strangely when she requested that particular table, but led them to it and was quite hospitable afterwards. M. Khan still looked a bit uneasy.

Biyu watched as the waiter stopped by the kitchen and whispered something to the host, then looked back at her. She reflexively dropped her gaze. Not many Westerners were well acquainted with the Chinese, and even fewer were accommodating.

"It's all right." She looked up at Nadir, who smiled gently. "They are likely talking about my hat." He removed the little red cap and hung it on the back of his chair. "That happens quite often, you see."

She paused. He would comfort her over a little thing like a curious waiter? "I see." She turned her attention to the menu. The waiter approached again, asking if they would like wine, but again her focus was on the food, and she didn't hear what he asked for. When she'd decided which dish appealed to her, she found the Persian man squinting towards the kitchen doors anxiously. "Oh? Did I miss something?"

His gaze returned to her. "Nothing, nothing- I've just asked for a bit of white wine."

"Sauvignon blanc?" He seemed startled.

"I thought you'd never been here before."

"I haven't, but I know a good pairing for the dish I have in mind."

Nadir's expression changed from startled to perplexed in such a manner that made her smile. "And what, pray tell, are you ordering? The only thing this place serves is snails."

"Snails in lemon sauce," she said rather primly. "Though if you're going for the traditional bite, you'd best ask for a glass of Chardonnay." He just gave her a rather helpless look. It made her chuckle to see him so completely out of his depth.

They were awkwardly silent until the waiter returned. "A vase of flowers for the lady, and…" He set the glass container on the far edge of the table and took a notepad in hand. "Have you decided on your meals?"

"Yes, I'll have the regular escargot, and a glass of Chardonnay," Nadir answered, giving Biyu a teasing glance. She just blinked at the flowers. No other table had them- had he asked for them personally? The gesture left her floundering for words when the waiter asked for her order.

"The- erm- lemon sauce escargot, and, ah, another glass of the same," she stumbled. a blush spread over her face as Nadir raised an eyebrow at her. Once the man returned to the kitchen, he leaned forward with the sort of secretive grin that reminded her of the things they did behind closed doors.

"Do shut up," she huffed.

"What's the matter? I thought Sauvignon Blanc was more to your taste." He waggled his eyebrows at her. At that she had to laugh. "Oh? Could it be I've finally succeeded in romancing the lady of the hour?"

She scoffed, but only in jest. "You'll have to do better than that, M. Khan, I think flowers are standard procedure for any date."

"Well, fear not, I have a splendid evening- oh!" He jumped back, knocking his chair over. When Biyu saw what he'd spotted crawling in the bouquet of pink ranunculus, she too backed away hurriedly. "Waiter!" he hollered. "Waiter!" A small brown rodent sniffed the air from its perch of flowers. The poor man hurried over to the table, apologized profusely while other guests looked on, and cleared the table rather impressively in the space of five minutes. He then offered them a free meal, but Biyu preferred not to eat in an establishment that housed mice.

Once out the door (along with several other disgruntled customers), Nadir and Biyu took one look at each other- and burst out laughing. "Good heavens, that was unexpected!" he exclaimed.

Biyu snorted. "Did you see his face? Almost like he never saw a mouse before!"

"Oh, I should hope not! Mice in one of Paris' most respectable restaurants? It would be front-page news if a critic or a reporter were here!" he chuckled. Biyu decided he looked even nicer when he was laughing.

"Well, if dinner at a restaurant is not an option tonight, how about a meal at home?" _Did I just volunteer to cook? Ah, that warm smile of his will be the death of me._

"That sounds lovely, but I'm afraid I'm not much of a cook," he admitted. "Cheap restaurants and cafes have been my most frequent haunts."

"I meant at my place, Nadir," she clarified, "unless you would rather?"

He pushed his glasses a little further up his nose. "You called me Nadir."

One eyebrow lifted. "I suppose I did. And…I might call you that for the rest of the night," she suggested. At this he lifted his shoulders slightly. His eyes softened into an expression that made her heart beat faster than it had in years.

"Who am I to refuse a lady?"

…

Across the way, Erik snickered to himself. His original plan was to haunt the restaurant for a few minutes, maybe make a few dishes and bottles of wine disappear, but when he realized the Persian had requested flowers, he couldn't resist making a few alterations to the bouquet. It was easy enough to snatch a mouse from the alley and tuck it down amidst the pink blooms as the waiter passed by. Honestly, keeping the back doors unlocked during business hours made it ridiculously easy to sneak into the pantry.

Before he left, he spotted a plate with a slice of warm clafoutis on it. _Christine did say she would like pastries. It's not the same as going out to buy them herself, but…_ When no one was looking, he wrapped the slice in a napkin. Then, thinking his Christine would not like to eat a stolen dessert, he left a few coins in its place.

Once outside, he released the mouse in his pocket and watched it scamper away. After it had helped him so wonderfully in his scheme, he didn't have the heart to let Ahmar kill and eat it. He'd have to find another rodent on a different night. After all, she was still a kitten: she had time to learn.

When he returned, Christine was peacefully asleep. The slice of clafoutis had to wait until morning. He peeked into her room for just a moment. With her eyes closed, he could see how scars had begun to creep over her skin like angry pink claws. There was only so much ointment could heal, and while he had done his best… It was a good thing he kept no reflective surfaces in the little house.

He shut the door behind him and surveyed his sitting room. A week prior, he'd looked around amazed at the difference Christine made, even while unconscious. Now he looked and saw a house turned into a home. Ahmar bolted from corner to corner, chasing the shadows she so much resembled.

Erik settled into his favorite seat by the unlit fireplace, gazing at the electric lamp that had begun to flicker. _The batteries will need replacing soon._ When he shut his eyes for a moment, the swirling blackness solidified into notes and ideas. Christine hadn't sung a single line for the duration of her stay, but simply being in her company stirred his creativity.

He cracked one golden eye open. The pianoforte was still piled up with clean sheets and dirty strips of bandaging, but once he was done and the sheets were folded… No. He crossed his long arms and shut his eyes again. Not while Christine was sleeping, for the noise would awaken her.

 _If not now, then when? She's always here. Either you risk waking her, or you play while she can hear you for certain._

Damn. His own mind had worked him into an inescapable circle. With a sigh, he rose, stretched, and scooped Ahmar up from the ground to place her on the piano's black lid. She batted at the fabric as he cleared it, tumbling about with a still-round kitten belly. With the sheets cleared, he sat at the bench, adjusted it, and lifted the cover over the keyboard.

Just as he was about to test the first notes, the blasted cat meowed. He glared. Ahmar just blinked her copper eyes quite innocently and turned her gaze aside. "Oh, you think that's funny, do you?"

He tapped a key, letting it ring in the quiet darkness. Ahmar made no comment, but tilted her head to the side in a manner that would have made Christine squeal with delight. Erik narrowed his eyes and dared play a whole chord, but-

"Mrrow!" the kitten said, tilting its nose skyward as if to sing. Erik grimaced. _Well. It appears this little creature takes after me in more than a hissy dislike of Nadir. She's terribly off key, but I suppose that can't be helped._ Then he shook his head. Sometimes his mind went to strange places.

He played a different chord, and Ahmar meowed again. And so they went, back and forth: a mewl for every key, up and down the keyboard. Erik found it amusing to match pitch with the cat, and she apparently found it amusing to choose a different note every time.

Wakened by the sound, Christine stood watching the little battle of notes from a crack in the doorway, grinning.

* * *

 **Hey, so I've gotten a guest reviewer! Unfortunately I can't respond through messaging, but thanks for your comments, sandy w!**


	7. Chapter 7

Christine awakened the next morning to the sound of a beautiful melody on the pianoforte and the smell of a hearty breakfast rather than the typical oatmeal. Eager to begin the day for once, she sat up, pushed herself out of bed, and adjusted the robe she'd taken to wearing constantly. Absently, she ran her fingers through her hair-

She remembered she had none as soon as her fingers touched her still-healing scalp. Instead of luscious, shining locks, all she felt was the bumpiness of forming scars and smarting, raw flesh. Her fingers came away coated with the crusty mixture of sugar and medicinal ointment. _That's right- I have no hair now. I am bald._ The realization was not so much painful as novel, until she remembered something from her first days in Erik's home beneath the opera. _He did so love my hair. He never dared touch me, but sometimes he would stare, and..._

A lump formed in her throat as she recalled what he had told her. _He does love his beautiful things._ Tears pooled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. Breakfast awaited, and with it the first real music she'd heard in ages. It was the happiest tune she'd ever heard him play. Even his favored selections from Mozart had always been morose. If he was happy, she would be happy for him.

With some effort, she put on her bravest smile and pushed open the door.

Ahmar was gorging herself on a small pile of cooked ground beef, a larger portion of which Christine saw was the main ingredient in a breakfast hash on the stove. Erik had strung up another lantern in the kitchen, and a third just over the hearth, bathing their little home in a bright, warm glow. If she squinted, it looked just like sunlight through high windows.

Erik, who had ceased to play when she entered, looked up from serving the hash onto two plates. _Ah, it's good to see we will eat together. Maybe one day he will not hide himself from me with that mask_ , she thought wistfully. "Good morning, Erik."

"And a good morning to you, Christine," he replied as he gallantly pulled out a chair and set her plate before her. She sat and breathed in the steam rising from the food, which almost resembled the city dump in color and consistency. Thankfully it smelled far better, and she identified bits of potato, onion, bell pepper, and cheese in the mix.

"This smells wonderful, but it doesn't look like breakfast. What sort of dish is this?" He placed a glass of deep red-violet liquid just next to her hand along with a cup of water.

"American, much to my surprise. I was not aware that our friends across the Atlantic were capable of making passable breakfast food- or any passable food, for that matter, everything of theirs seems to come canned," he chuckled. Then he sat down and began to eat almost immediately. Christine could have sworn he pushed his mask aside an extra centimeter.

It perplexed her to see him in such a fine mood, to the point where she felt like checking his temperature to see if he was delirious. Still, if he was content for once, she wouldn't spoil it. "So…what has you in such a wonderful frame of mind this morning?" She hoped her smile looked teasing and not freakish as she took a few bites of (surprisingly good) hash.

He swallowed and gazed at the table for a few seconds, thinking. Then he readjusted the mask so as to turn his gaze to her without impediment. "You… You may not remember, but you asked me if I still loved you last night." From his careful pronunciation, she inferred that he had practiced this statement.

"I remember," _with some embarrassment_ , she added to herself. _It was a stupid question._

"You were asleep when I answered, so I decided I should answer you this morning," he explained, very reasonably. "I-" he halted as if forcing the words out. "I love you most ardently, Christine. And while you may never return my affections, I count every day with you a blessing."

She sat in stunned silence. _He still loves me. I suspected, but now for him to confirm… Even with my shame, the corruption of my body…_ Without virginity, without even a hint of beauty left, without home, family, funds, or the voice she once had, he still loved her. If she hadn't cried so much the night before, she'd have begun to do so again, from happiness. Her mouth trembled, and her throat tightened with the swell of unnameable emotion in her chest.

He sensed she could not speak at the moment, and so pushed the glass of red liquid towards her. "You need not speak- but if you can see my feelings for you in a positive light, take a sip of Persephone's draught." He leaned back again. From the way his eyes darted from her eyes to her hands and back again, she knew he was anxious. "If not- if you wish only to heal and be free of me, drink from the water; I will not stop you."

 _And here he has set before me another choice- pomegranate or water, stay or go. Oh, Erik, when will you know that you need not give me choices?_ Despite her affectionate frustration with him, she reached for the red glass and took a long sip. The acid stung her lips, but it was intensely sweet on the tongue. When she turned her eyes back to his, he was staring with the wonderment and adoration that at one time frightened her.

At last she regained the ability to speak. "You don't need to ask if I wish for your love or for freedom, for they are one and the same to me." She paused and took a deep, steadying breath. She had oft considered her regrets, what she should have done differently in the past year. Then she waited for her chance, and now was the time. "Only give me time, Erik, and in that time, I will learn to love you in return, as I should have." Her small, somewhat deformed fingers clumsily grasped his long, bony digits.

With a sigh like the wind, he bent and pressed his forehead to her knuckles, and wept for joy. "Christine- you have made your Erik so very, very happy."

…

In a little apartment across the city, Nadir Khan was also having a very good morning. After a delicious home-cooked meal (instead of snails), both he and Biyu retired for the evening- to the same bed, that is. Now, waking late in the morning with every inch of skin pressed to her, he decided that this was the sort of life he wanted: one with plenty of lazy mornings and late nights with his beloved.

He closed his eyes and readjusted himself so as to leave one arm about her waist and the other arm under her pillow. Unfortunately, Biyu was already half awake and squinting at the wall clock. "What- what time is it? Oh, bother," she grumbled. Then she twisted around, never leaving the warm cocoon of blankets and limbs. "We are quite tardy for work."

"Stop moving," he half complained. "Work can wait." He left a quick peck on the skin of her neck, very glad that they both wore high-collared shirts to the office.

"Not when the Comte de Chagny is due just after lunch," she reminded.

"He is? I was not aware," Nadir teased, laying little kisses up and down her cheek and temple. Actually, he was very much aware- the count was influential in French foreign policy and had already funded several politicians' trips abroad. In particular he sided with the British, for commercial reasons more than noble intent. Khan had always wondered how Raoul de Chagny, a shallow boy, could have such an ambitious and cunning brother.

Biyu pushed his face aside with a slight laugh. "Stop that, your facial hair tickles."

"Oh? That's not the impression you gave last night," he said in mock confusion. She ignored him and rose from the bed to bathe and dress. The Persian groaned in protest. "My warmth!" Biyu just gave him one of her somewhat snarky smiles.

"Come now, you'd best dress as well. I did not work my way up in the world by missing a day or two." Then she ducked into the privy and ran the tap to take a quick bath. With a sigh, he threw off the covers and started pulling on articles of clothing. Thankfully his suit from the day before was mostly unwrinkled. Or at least, it seemed smooth without his glasses on.

Once clean and clothed, Biyu was kind enough to brew him a cup of ginseng tea- for energy, she said. While he found it very bitter, it left him awake and aware without a large breakfast. The embassy was not far away, so they walked together. Yet again, however, she refused to walk on his arm. At the door he asked why she did not hold his arm like most ladies did.

She considered his question for a moment. Nadir thought she made an elegant picture, with her red-painted lips and high, tight-bound hair. "I have never subscribed to the traditional roles of most women, either in China or France. Besides, it would be unprofessional to hold you at our place of work, no?"

"Well- no, I mean…" he spluttered, but she was already heading inside to begin the day's labor. With a long-suffering sigh, he followed. _Maybe if we just work together for a few more days, we can arrange for a dinner at a restaurant again- this time without the mice!_

…

Nadir had expected the count to walk by his desk without a second glance. After all, what was a mere clerk in comparison with matters of national security? He had not expected the grand Comte de Chagny to descend the stairs and stride towards him with definite intent.

"You there, I recognize you," the brawny man said. His ice-blue eyes glinted in a way he didn't quite like. "You helped my little brother rescue his sweetheart." He stuck out one strong, pale hand. The Persian clerk rose and found that the count was a head taller than him, with a crushing, callused grip. This was the hand of a man who handled weapons as proficiently as he wielded a pen.

At the next desk, Biyu watched from the corner of her eye. To anyone else it seemed as if she scribbled away with secretarial work, but he knew she was keeping a careful eye on the goings-on. _I suppose she always did dislike nobility as a rule._

"I suppose I did, M. le Comte," Nadir answered evenly; or rather, as evenly as he could while craning his neck to look up at this giant of a man. He'd never considered himself short until now. _Good God, women must throw themselves at him._

"Please, call me Philippe," he insisted as he released Nadir's hand. "After all, you saved my brother's life." Suddenly his persona was all warmth and friendliness. "As annoying as he can be at times, I suppose I owe you."

"Annoying, yes, that's…a good way of putting it," he said without really thinking. With all the trouble Raoul had caused for himself, the opera, and his underground-dwelling friend, 'annoying' was the mildest word in his vocabulary regarding the young viscount.

Philippe laughed heartily, chest and belly shaking with mirth. "I see you're well-acquainted with him! You seem a fine man, you must join me for lunch and regale me with tales of your little excursion under the opera. Of course, I did read the papers, but I am eager to hear of this phantom fellow straight from the horse's mouth, as they say." His blue eyes twinkled again. Nadir found himself disliking that conniving glance even more.

Partly as an excuse and partly because he really did intend to, Nadir said very politely: "I'm afraid not today, M. Philippe. You see, I have a pressing lunch date with the lady at the next desk." He gestured towards Biyu, who nodded and gave the count the tiniest of smiles.

The big man gave a sort of half-bow towards the woman, leering with his gaze more than his facial expression. That leer set Nadir's dislike of the count in stone. "Well, I must say you are a lucky man." What he said wasn't rude, but he could tell when and where a man let his gaze linger a bit too long. "Tomorrow, then? No- better yet, Monday. I am quite sure your employer would not mind your absence for a few hours."

The steel in his blue gaze revealed the command behind the words. _Join me for lunch or I will tell the head of the embassy you have slighted me._ One did not simply say no to a de Chagny, particularly one who poured so many francs into the cause of foreign relations. Nadir had no choice but to comply despite his aversion. "It'll have to be Monday, then," he replied with veiled reluctance.

When the count left (presumably for another political engagement) Nadir returned to his desk with a disconcerted frown across his forehead. Biyu matched his frown with one of her own. "I don't like him. He has something wicked and savage about him," she muttered. "Your friend under the opera had better watch himself."

"I don't like him either," Nadir agreed. "He was a little too curious for my taste- wait a minute, how do you know about all that?" he hissed in shock. It had been months since the scandal, and fame faded quickly in a world of fast-paced news.

She went back to shuffling and signing papers. "The count is not the only person who reads _L'Époque_. They never said the 'phantom' died, so that must mean he is alive, and he is your friend," she explained.

"Oh."

…

Late into the evening, Christine whimpered a bit as she held her arms out for Erik to unwrap at the customary post-dinner bath time. After almost two weeks of intensive care, she was impatient for the burns to heal. She didn't want to look at them either. Erik never said anything when he helped her wash and reapply medicine, but she could tell from the expression in his eyes that her skin was in critical condition.

Her hands had healed enough that she had no need to cover them, but in the past few days Christine had begun to understand why Erik always wore a suit over every possible inch of skin. Every time she looked down at her hands, she either stared long and hard or looked away with a slight sense of nausea. They were scaly and slightly warped, nothing like the soft, pale hands she'd had before. On those occasions that she stared, she could even see the dim shadows of a few veins beneath the discolored skin.

When Erik moved to begin undoing the linen wrappings around her torso, she held up one hand, wincing at the roughness. He gave her a curious nod. "What is it? Have I hurt you?"

"No, it's just... I want to do it." Her gaze turned downward, where she was still bundled up in his robe. Erik moved like he was about to protest, but apparently thought better of it.

"Well. At least let me do your shoulder blades." She nodded her consent, fiddling with her fingers. The nail on her ring finger was gone, completely burnt away, and was beginning to grow over with skin. "Lift your arms." She did, eyes turned upward as he unwound the cotton down past her chest. She'd never looked at her wounds before, but a sort of morbid curiosity overcame her disgust. She knew from Erik's analysis that her skin was healing somewhat, but still raw and painful.

When he was done with her shoulders and the small area of her back that she couldn't reach, he withdrew his hands. "Are you quite sure you want to do this alone?"

"Yes," she answered rather abruptly. "I mean, wouldn't it be silly if you bathed me all the time, even after I am healed?" Once the words left her mouth she cringed inwardly from embarrassment. Her reasoning worked, however, and Erik stood to leave.

"Oh. I see." He twisted on the tap for warm water and headed headed for the door. "Once the tub is full, you'll turn the water off?" She dipped her head to show she understood. "Very well. Do not hesitate to call for assistance should you require it, Christine." Then, with a touch of the dry humor and the smile that she loved: "I would dearly hate to find you drowned."

Once he had left the washroom, she continued to unwrap herself. Bit by bit, her body was revealed- and oh, what a travesty was laid before her eyes. The burns were healing, and the skin had crept a few inches across the raw flesh, but it was still hard to believe this was better than her prior condition. The raw patches extended down her legs, all the way down to her feet. There were little pale islands of regrowing skin, but for the most part she looked like she'd had sections of her outer layer cut away.

She could only imagine what her face looked like.

After a glance at the rippling, shadowy surface of the bathwater, she edged her body into the tub and closed her eyes against the sight. Perhaps when she was healed, she would be brave enough to face herself, but for now… For now ignorance was bliss.


	8. Chapter 8

Philippe de Chagny was not having the best evening. His little brother's expedition to the Arctic left him to deal with his cranky grandmother. He took a sip of rather acrid tea and pursed his lips, staring into the embers of the fireplace. Raoul had always been Grandmother's favorite because of his natural charm and people-pleasing facade. In addition to this he had the advantage of a deceptively innocent face. All these qualities combined made him far more popular than Philippe had ever been, despite his position as head of the household.

Yes, he was the sterner, more practical brother. He had a goal in mind, and that made some people (Grandmother de Chagny included) dislike him. Perhaps his grandmother disliked him because it was obvious he would not be pushed around like Raoul so easily was. After decades ruling the de Chagnys it was probably hard to release her bony, avaricious grip on power.

He took another sip of tea, wishing it was spiked with something stronger- maybe a shot or two of bourbon. The old lady in the armchair across from him stared with a pinched frown. "Yes?" Philippe prompted coolly. Unless he spoke first, she'd never say what irked her this time around.

"How much will Raoul's expedition cost? I've heard from the head butler how much the clothes alone cost. How will you pay it? Illegally, out of his own trust fund?" She frowned even more deeply and set her teacup down with a clink.

Philippe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No, Grandmother, he funded the whole trip himself, with my money, I might add." He found it both ridiculous and irritating that Raoul had to be put on an allowance at his age. The boy had no concept of budgeting, and badgered him constantly for money for this and that. This latest vacation to the north had left him about twenty-five percent poorer than he should have been. "Besides, you know no one touches the trust fund until he's married."

"To a respectable woman of my choosing," the woman added.

"We've been over this." Philippe also set his cup down a little harder than necessary. "Those are not the terms of the trust. Raoul can marry whoever he pleases. It's you who cause these 'respectable women' to flee for their lives." He looked into the fireplace again, which gave only an ashy red light now. "Pity- I truly thought he'd succeeded with this last one."

The decrepit countess scoffed. "The singer? Please- I never made him out as the sort to wed one of those theater girls. Women of the night, they are."

He raised an eyebrow. "I have personally invested in the Palais Garnier and always found it a most reputable organization. Not one of the performers is or has ever been a prostitute."

"I still don't like it," she squawked back. The folds of her neck skin flapped as she jawed at him, harping on about morals nowadays and the corruption of the entertainment business. He mentally muted her and instead turned to introspection. Arguing with his grandmother required too much energy and reaped no benefit. It was going to be a long night- he might as well make the best of it.

 _I do need some way to recover my funds. Perhaps I'll strike a deal with a bounty hunter to go after some political assassin, or a murderer. It's a relatively small project, but it'll have to tide me over for a while…_

...

After her bath, Christine redressed most of herself in medicine and strips of linen, then called Erik back for help with the places she couldn't reach. As much as she enjoyed him fussing over her, newfound mobility was not something she intended to let slip through her fingers.

When she took a place on the settee for her nightly reading, Erik did not sit by the hearth. Instead he headed for the door and donned his customary dark cloak.

"Where are you going?" She knew he went out for food or other supplies, but he always seemed to go when she was asleep. She never saw him come or go.

"I am going back to the opera to recover some funds," he replied. He unhooked a small lantern from its place by the door and donned his hat. "The flooding has subsided from the basements, and the workers will be gone at this time of night."

"Funds?" To her knowledge, large amounts of money were made of paper and dissolved after long exposure to water. She had always known Erik was wealthy, but she assumed most of that wealth was washed away when she turned the scorpion. "I suppose…" He was almost out of the door. "Erik?"

"Yes?" He had his black mask on, since the white one easily reflected light.

"Please be careful." He nodded slowly, and left. The door shut with a dull thud.

And so the former singer found herself alone in the little stone house. She picked out another book to read, but it turned out to be in a language she didn't recognize. Ahmar was asleep on her bed. The silence grated on her ears, punctuated only by intermittent flickering from the lamp in the kitchen.

An irrational fear fluttered through her chest. She was alone. As quiet as Erik was, it was comforting to hear him making a meal or paging through some ancient book. In the absolute silence, her ears itched for noise of some kind.

With a sharp snap, the lantern in the kitchen gave up its last bit of light. The noise made Christine jump. Feeling a little silly, she placed a hand over heart and let out a nervous laugh. Then, with some effort, she made her way to the dark kitchen area.

There were no other lanterns in the house, so she would have to light a candle and if she wanted to sit at the piano or rummage about for a snack. The prospect did not thrill her- instead, as she felt her way through the dark cupboards, her palms grew clammy. _Where are they? I only need one. One, and that will be enough_ , she repeated to herself. With some relief, her fingers closed around a little matchbook and a stumpy little candle.

The relief was short lived, however. Once she set the candle down and opened the matchbook, her trembling fingers were unable to grip a match to strike it. _Come now, it's just one match. You've done this countless times before._ But her treacherous body would not obey. With both her hands shaking so, she eventually pinched one matchstick out of the packet- and fumbled, dropping it on the table where it blended into the dimness.

Tears formed in her eyes, both from anxiety and frustration. _Why is this so hard? It is such a small thing, and yet I shake._ With a deep, shuddering breath, she withdrew back into the light of the sitting room. Ahmar padded over and curled up in her lap, purring as if to comfort her. Eventually the frantic thudding of her heart slowed, her eyes closed, and her lungs steadied.

 _One day, I will not be afraid_ , she decided. _One day I will be able to light a candle like an ordinary person. One day…_

When Erik returned, he found his little angel asleep on the settee and carried her to her bed. Then he went to replace the batteries in the kitchen lamp. When he stepped down from the chair, the warm light from above drew his eyes to the objects on the table: a matchbook and one of its lone children, bent from a tight grip, and a stumpy candle.

An idea formed in his mind.

…

Erik went out that evening in search of a store he hadn't been to in a long time. In fact, it had been so long that he'd almost forgotten how busy the area was. Normally the little store stocked a little gunpowder, unattached fuses, and various hardware, but this time he was after a more whimsical item.

However, on the way he found his eyes wandering with uncharacteristic curiosity. Was the Persian out with his woman again? This street was popular with lovers looking for refreshment on an evening stroll. _Nadir always did appreciate a little cliché._

It seemed his train of thought was correct, surprisingly. As if telepathically summoned, just in the pools of light cast by the lanterns above, there walked Nadir Khan and the Asian woman he had seen before. _Perhaps I should stop thinking about him; every time the blasted man crosses my mind he appears._ A smirk crossed his face. The couple was on their way to Nadir's apartment, and the man's suit was the same as it had been the night before, which meant they'd shared a bed the previous evening.

Would a little more mischief put him too much out of his way? He mentally calculated the time it would take to successfully irritate his long-time friend and decided against it.

It was almost eerie the way his thought processes came true. The couple walked a little too slowly across the way; the oncoming carriage turned the corner a little too fast. In his efforts to move out of the way, Nadir's ankle twisted at an unnatural angle. Erik sighed.

 _I really should stop thinking about him. It appears anything that occurs to me results in bad luck._ Then, he watched as the woman steadied him as he hopped on one foot. Of course, they both tumbled to the ground, unbalanced. After three clumsy attempts to get up, the woman's frustration was apparent. He could hear them bickering:

"Here, put your hand here and move backwards-

"Ow!"

"Not that way."

"Yes, I know 'not that way,'" he huffed back, wincing.

"Your shoe is on my skirt," she said. "And there is a man in black standing behind you."

At this Nadir heaved himself backward with a yelp of surprise. When he looked up he scowled. "Damn you, Erik! Why'd you have to show up now?"

Erik, who stood quite still in the entrance to a very narrow alley, raised what would be an eyebrow on a normal face. "Ever courteous, I see," he muttered. "That isn't a very nice way to greet potential help now, is it?"

"Just help me up," Nadir demanded. Biyu looked on, expression warring between confusion and mirth.

Silently, Erik held out one arm and the Persian gripped it, and was pulled upright. With her characteristic calm, Biyu lifted him so he could rest one arm about her shoulders. The phantom eyed her with a fair amount of suspicion. There had been some occasions when storekeepers or yapping street children threatened to expose his presence, but this woman was cool and composed. She showed no sign of panic at a stranger's presence, even one as imposing as himself. _Perhaps I won't drug her after this. She doesn't seem the type to run to the police._

Nadir complained a bit about having to go the long route, but knowing Erik preferred to stay out of sight, his grumbling died down. At any rate, the populace that still hunted for a glimpse of the infamous opera ghost looked for a Red Death costume, or perhaps the fancifully feathered cap of Faust from that fateful night. They did not expect an ordinary cloak and gentleman's suit.

When they at last entered Nadir's small flat and laid him out on the single bed, Erik withdrew a syringe from the folds of his coat and stuck it in the Persian's arm. "Ouch! What the-" He was unconscious within seconds.

At last, Biyu spoke. "You carry morphine with you?"

"Of course," he said smoothly. "How else would I stop his infernal griping?"

"That is…useful," she said, choosing her words carefully. She looked up at him. Erik paused, unsure whether to leave without a word or drug her as well. He hadn't known it was possible for a human being to be this short. She was almost half a head shorter than Christine, by his estimate. "I take it you are the famous _M. le fantôme_?"

Erik pursed his thin lips. "I suppose I am, though if you wish to keep your full memory of this night, I suggest you refrain from revealing my continued existence." He held up the still half-full syringe for emphasis. To his surprise, the small woman just shrugged.

"It is of no importance to me if you are a private man. Unlike the majority of Paris, I form my opinions of people without the influence of a newspaper." She searched about in a side drawer for an extra blanket and laid it over her comatose lover. "As it stands, I owe you."

He was already at the door. "You owe me nothing- I simply wanted to ensure that your M. Khan owed me one more debt." He gave a slightly mocking bow and turned to leave.

"You do not seem a bad man, M. Erik," she called after him. "You do seem a lonely one." For a moment, he didn't answer.

Then: "Nadir is lucky to have you. I wish you well, though with my luck the next carriage will trample you," he muttered. He left silently. The hardware store would be closed and quiet by now.

Biyu was left to gather herself and go home. It had been a rather interesting night, one she was glad she would remember.

…

After retrieving the needed supplies from the store (and leaving an appropriate amount of money in their place), Erik returned to his home. _Home._ With Christine residing in his once little-used room, and Ahmar scampering about underfoot, his hiding hole was warm and bright. With her declaration of a tentative chance at love, everything changed. Yes, he wept- but his heart sang of roses and the pink-tinted lens of one in love.

A florist's shop was just closing, so he plucked a day-old rose from the basket of extras and tucked it into his pocket. Christine said she would love him, but what was the harm in speeding the process along a bit? If his observations of the human race served him correctly, didn't most women enjoy a little wooing? He grinned a rather smug grin. Even that vile vicomte and his practiced charms had not wooed her correctly.

The wet tunnels of the river did not dampen his mood. Ahmar greeted him, tail up, at the door, with a tiny mew. For once, he bent to scratch between her ears. The kitten purred and rubbed her body along his bony hand. "Come on you beautiful thing, it's time for you to keep Christine's feet warm," he teased, not caring whether she understood or not.

He plucked the kitten up, long fingers wrapping around her fuzzy little body, and very softly entered the bedroom. Christine was still asleep, but her head had rolled awkwardly to the side. Erik frowned. If she slept that way, she'd wake with a stiff neck. He set Ahmar down on the quilted covers and ever so gently readjusted the pillow so her neck was in a more comfortable position.

With her eyes closed, she looked so peaceful. However, without needing to directly interact with her, Erik saw, perhaps, what her own eyes might someday see. Her scalp was still tender in places, scabbed over in pink and cracking brown. He knew from experience that those wounds closed and became mottled, ropy tracks on the skin. In all likelihood, her hair would not grow back. In a cruel mockery of his own features, the flesh of her nose had also withdrawn a bit from its frame as it healed, making it appear as if the tip was altogether missing. With her body so intent on healing itself, she had lost weight, making the hollows of her cracked cheeks more prominent. Her lips, once sensuously full, now smeared their pink outside the natural borders, as if with a careless artist's paintbrush.

And yet, if he absorbed that damaged picture as a whole, with its healing peace and sweet repose, she was heart-achingly beautiful. His fingers twitched at his sides. _I've done it once before, and it did her no harm. Perhaps… Perhaps I might do so again._

With some trepidation and trembling, he unclipped the strap that held his mask in place and removed the hard, dark barrier. _She cannot see me_ , he reminded himself. _This is not like before, with all the tears. This is because I am happy. She has made me happy._ Slowly, he leaned down. A heartbeat passed, and a nervous gulp- and he pressed his lips to Christine's injured forehead with all the tenderness he could muster. He felt her breathe out a sigh, as if she knew he was there.

When he withdrew, Ahmar was staring with her coppery eyes. With the casual sass that only cats have, she blinked and looked aside.

Erik glared. "Well, it's not as if you could have done any better," he whispered. The kitten just circled and settled herself for sleep in the small gap between Christine's ankles, a shadow in a field of white and grey. "Impudent creature," he muttered to himself.

After inspecting it for any thorns, he placed the rose on the mirrorless dressing table. Beside it was the folder and the small satchel of things that had survived the fire. He considered the folder for a moment. Inside it, his life's work in _Don Juan Triumphant_ resided…and with it, the decades of agony and and smoldering misery. It was his masterpiece, his brainchild, and too grim for the new hope and contentment that permeated his stone house. Those dreary lines and smoldering lyrics had to wait for their time. For now, his mind filled with fantasies of lovers' duets, all sung in his voice and Christine's sparkling soprano.

He exited the room and closed the door with new ideas to keep him up all night.


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn't the first time Christine had woken to a rose. Erik almost made a habit of leaving roses for her in her performing days, not to mention one particular evening when he'd covered every surface of her dressing room with deep red blooms. She had been afraid then, but she laughed now. Erik always had a way of making the smallest things monumental.

His roses were always the color of blood, and so perfumed that the scent made her dizzy if she breathed too deeply. Today was the first day she'd been gifted a pink rose- no less fragrant or beautiful, but simply…different. She recognized the breed as the _belle romantica_ , a strain popular for its scent and symbolic meaning.

With ease that indicated the progress of her healing, she stood, stretched, and made her way to the kitchen. It was strangely quiet. The lamp batteries had been replaced, so with the newly bright light, she saw Erik was not in the room, making breakfast where he usually was. _Where has he gone? Surely he returned last night. I could have sworn he was in my room for a minute…_

Her question was answered as she rounded the kitchen corner and peeked into the dim alcove where the piano sat (a baby grand, since Erik never did anything small where music was concerned). There was the disheveled man slumped over the closed keyboard, head resting in his arms. His mask was crooked, revealing part of his forehead and half a deep-sunken eye. Christine smiled. He'd taken off his suit jacket, leaving only his white shirt as a barrier between a painfully thin frame and the cool air. Several handwritten pages of music, the products of his late night, were scattered on the pianoforte's lid.

She often wondered if he slept at all, but thankfully he did. Perhaps now all that sleep deprivation had caught up with him. _Should I wake him so he can move to the bed?_ What was left of her cheeks flushed at the thought of Erik lying in the bed she'd inhabited for the past three weeks. She was small, and he was so thin they likely fit on the mattress with ease. In fact, she knew he fit, because he must have used the bed at some point before she came to reside with him. Then she shook her head- proper ladies did not pursue that train of thought. Besides, that sort of encounter (on a bed, involving the both of them) might be painful.

After some consideration, and a good deal of fond admiring, Christine opted to leave Erik at the piano and simply drape his coat around his shoulders. If he woke with his mask even a bit dislodged, it would only cause him distress, and if he was sleeping so late into the morning he was in dire need of rest. _Today is the right time_ , she realized. _Today I must ask him to remove the mask._

Hoping to ease his transition from masked to unmasked, she set about making breakfast for the both of them- a cold breakfast, because hot food required her to light the stove. In a few minutes she assembled a few slices of bread with honey, jam, and chocolate on the side. She briefly wondered where he'd acquired chocolate and chalked it up to a sweet tooth. _I never knew he liked sweets. Perhaps that is why he has energy but only some flesh over his bones._ She decided that if she came to prepare food regularly, she would feed Erik plenty.

The sound of plates clinking on the kitchen table roused the sleeping composer. Erik sat up all of a sudden and blinked rather owlishly. This effect was enhanced by the reflective gold color of his eyes. Christine fancied he resembled one of those snowy owls emerging after a long rest. "Good morning," she greeted politely.

His head whipped around to meet her eyes. The mask loosened a bit from the momentum, but he reflexively adjusted it. "Ah… Good morning to you, Christine." He seemed a bit at loss for words, but immediately set about looking for his jacket. Christine held back a laugh as he circled, only to discover that the garment was already about his shoulders. "I apologize- I know you require breakfast, and I was regrettably…occupied."

She laughed merrily. "Oh, Erik, you need not apologize for sleeping like a normal man! In fact, I was getting a mite worried that you never slept at all!" Before he could defend himself she continued, "Actually, I thought it would be uncomfortable to have the mask on while you sleep. You can take it off, you know. I don't mind."

Speech dwindled away from him as she gazed his way with her sweet smile. It seemed like several minutes of silence before he answered- except he didn't answer.

"I had best get to making you a proper breakfast. That cold bread will turn your stomach." He went into the kitchen himself and shooed her away. Christine sat on the settee and crossed her arms with a huff and a pout. _Well, no one said this would be easy…and my cold bread and honey wouldn't turn anyone's stomach!_

…

By noon, Erik had again stationed himself at the pianoforte to test chord progressions and plunk out a few phrases of melody, then scribble and repeat the process over again. Christine knew it was either entirely impossible or easy as counting to break his concentration during a bout of composing. She wagered it was the former today. To test her hypothesis, she shushed Ahmar into the alcove and watched. When the kitten mewed, Erik twitched a little, but otherwise remained unresponsive.

Satisfied that he was thoroughly distracted, she began rifling through every unexplored corner of the house. After searching the sitting room and the small dining area with no result, she put her hands on her hips and glared. She already knew he did not keep any of his things in the bedroom. _Where does he keep it? He must have more than one._

Currently he wore his white mask, but she knew he had a black one, and certainly a spare. With his compulsion towards cleanliness, he probably rotated between identical masks several times per week. At last, on the verge of giving up, she thought to search the kitchen. After all, all those cupboards were space enough for several sets of clothes and toiletries. Determined, she began opening the cupboards, squinting in the dim light.

Finally, under the sink, was a crate of neatly folded clothes (mostly suits and undergarments) under which were buried, as predicted, several white masks. For a moment she considered just throwing all of them into the Seine. However, after a bit of thought she decided to proceed with her original plan. After all, she needed to make a point.

She extricated one mask from the tangle of clothes. It was big enough to cover her entire face, and even most of her mouth if she adjusted it to see through the eyeholes. Quickly, so Erik did not see, she pulled it on and tightened the strap at the back. The strap was soft, but she quickly found it rather stifling to breath through the two small holes of the sculpted nose. _All the more reason to get him to take his off. Breathing like this can't be healthy._

Very quietly, she tucked the spare masks into the folds of the dressing gown she wore and replaced the clothes as they were. Then she delivered the masks to her room and placed them under the assortment of feminine underthings in the bureau, where Erik was too polite to look. He'd probably acquired them through Nadir instead of purchasing them himself.

She peeked out of the room, listening; he was still working. _I wonder how long it will take him to notice?_ Christine was aware of the mask, annoyingly so. Despite the softness of the strap, its edges still itched against the sensitive, scabby surface of her scalp. The mask itself was hard, molded leather, and while it may have fit Erik's bone structure perfectly, it rubbed against her raw cheeks and dug under her cheekbones. She decided she would wait for him to realize, and again sat on the settee with a red-leather-bound tome of Norse mythologies.

It was coming up on a full hour when Erik finally sat away from the keys with a sigh. Christine sat very straight on the settee, reading with intent. She'd just started on a section about the goddess Freya when he plopped his bony frame down in his armchair, eyes closed from mental fatigue.

Casually, without looking up, she commented, "That sounded very nice, Erik. Are you writing another opera?"

He didn't seem to notice, being somewhat occupied with a pounding headache. "It did _not_ sound nice, I've run through those phrases at least twenty times by now and-" At long last, he looked up, mostly out of frustration. "Christine- why the devil are you wearing my mask?"

She smiled to herself. "I look just the same as you do now, so I thought I'd better wear a mask too." There were no mirrors anywhere, but she knew terrible scarring would plague her from top to toe, even after the skin had sealed itself.

"Nonsense, you look nothing like me!" he protested. "You look alive. I consider, and have always considered, a view of your lovely face an unrivaled pleasure."

"Ah, and after my skin mends itself in all the wrong shapes, I will look dead," she pointed out, setting the book neatly in her lap. "It's terribly uncomfortable, but I suppose I shall have to grow accustomed to it in time. At any rate, molded leather eventually conforms to the skin, does it not?"

"It's not healthy for you to wear it. Your wounds are still open," he argued back. Christine almost smiled. Aggravating him was exactly what she'd aimed from the beginning. Still, she persisted.

"I don't want you to see me. No one should see my face," she replied with a stubborn pout. "Why, if someone were to catch sight of me, they'd be frightened and disgusted!" _They will be- but now I am with Erik, and we need not venture out alone into society's unforgiving light. He needs to see that I am with him._

This shocked the man into sudden quiet. Without his realizing it, they had switched roles. He wished to see her face; she was like him now, and wished to hide herself. His spine dipped against the back of the chair as he slumped in defeat. With a very dry half-smile, he nodded at Christine. "My dear, in another life you might have been an indomitable lawyer."

She relented. "Now do you understand, Erik?" The dressing gown pooled against the stone floor as she knelt at his knee and grasped his long fingers with her own. "You want me to love you, and I want that as well. How can I love you when you insist on hiding yourself from me?" He was silent, but his throat bobbed with an emotion-choked swallow. "You once told me to tear away your face, and that perhaps there was a handsome man beneath the deathly mask. Whatever harms the people of the past may have inflicted, know that I will never intentionally hurt you. They did not love you as I do."

A glimmering tear flowed from one of his deep-set eyes and disappeared into the dark gap under the mask. That ribcage that housed a precious heart spasmed with sobs. Christine felt his hand grip hers for dear life.

"I am not afraid." With the hand not clasped in his, she loosened the strap of the mask she wore and lifted it away to reveal her mottled, crumbling visage.

"I- I am not a good man, Christine. I have done horrible things, things far worse that what you have witnessed since the day we met. And you will look upon me differently- you think you will not, but you will. Why should you wish to see the face of a murderer?" His eyes pleaded desperately. That piteous golden gaze wove a spell over her until she could not help but give.

"Because the man I know today is not a murderer," she quietly reasoned. Her own eyes flowed with tears of their own, but she kept steady. "I know you to be brilliant, kind, thoughtful, generous. I know you to have a heart so full of love it drove you mad." She reached up and pressed her palm over said wildly beating heart. "I know you, Erik. You can see past my faults and my woundings, even to the very heart of me. Now I want to see you."

Helpless to refuse, Erik nodded. "Then- by all means, my love, unmask me," he murmured between gasps, "but never leave me, else I die." Christine obeyed, rising slowly so as not to startle him. She sat herself in his lap and reached behind his head for the strap, never once breaking eye contact. When the strap was undone he almost turned away, but she held him with her loving touch until the mask was lowered and set aside.

Christine placed her scarred little hands on either side of his head, surveying the looks that had brought her beloved so much misery. Little scars in lines and dots peppered his thin, papery skin. He was so thin, his temples so deep and cheekbones so prominent that her fingertips almost sunk in as she traced their lines and contours. The mask gave the illusion of a nose, when in reality he had none, only a sharp end that opened into a dark nasal cavity. With some interest, she noted that his lips were thin and not very defined.

He barely breathed, barely moved as she touched her forehead to his and looked into those wet amber-flecked-gold eyes. She had wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and now she wondered no more. She pressed her lips to his and found it warm, a little dry, like any other man's would be- and yet no man had ever sparked such an intense fire in her heart.

Her kiss lasted little more than a second, for he cried in earnest now, clinging to her as more precious than life itself. "Christine, Christine, how I love you so…"

"I love you," she whispered to him, "and one day you will believe me."

He held her and cried for a long time. She repeated those words as pleas, as prayers, as promises, as comforts, until neither of them wept any longer.

…

Holding Christine, Erik found, was a most pleasurable activity. The way to enjoy his unconcealed face most effectively was to press it to the crook of her neck and feel the warmth of her through the layers of bandages. Alas, as living things they were required to move when hunger gnawed again at their innards, so he was forced to spend minutes apart from her to put together another small meal.

An air of peace prevailed in the house by the river. Throughout dinner, however, he decided the last few hours were nothing short of a miracle. There they were, sitting together with his face as bare as when he'd been born, eating together and exchanging affectionate glances like love notes.

It was almost too good to be true.

With winter coming on fast in the outside world, it was colder in the house. _If I asked, would she let me hold her again, just for a few minutes?_ he wondered as he cleared their plates. Shuffling papers alerted him to Christine's presence in the piano alcove. Normally he'd have felt self-conscious letting her see an unfinished score, but as the new piece had barely begun and all self-consciousness had already been ripped from him, he took his time washing the dishes.

She was humming when he emerged, adorably engrossed in the drafted libretto. He recognized the love theme from _Roméo et Juliette_ and took it as a positive sign. _Would she sing love songs if she were not in love?_ It astounded him: she loved him! Or she was in love with him, Erik the man, not an angel or spirit. He'd have died of happiness if death were not a permanent separation from Christine.

"What do you think?"

She turned with a smile. "What do I think? You are asking a performer, _maestro_?"

He shrugged. For some reason he couldn't stop smiling, even though he knew he looked horrendous doing it. "Even a genius needs feedback from a fresh pair of eyes." The woman turned her eyes back to the score. "Would you sing it?"

"I'm afraid you'd be most disappointed in me. I haven't really sung in months," she admitted.

"Ah, but you can. You're simply not sure of yourself, and that is a problem easily remedied with a few exercises." Erik had drilled sight-singing into her since the beginning. The piece was well within her abilities. In his mind, it could be an opening aria in a grand three-act opera, resonating well with Christine's high coloratura and dramatic lower range. It might never be performed, but music for music's sake never hurt.

She raised a skeptical brow at him. "You would teach me again?"

"My dear, I have to, or I'd have a terribly hard time singing soprano!" Ah, it was one of the best things in the world to make Christine laugh. With a grandiose gesture and a grin, she said:

"Then let us begin!"


	10. Chapter 10

After an hour of music and laughter, Christine tired of standing on her healing feet, so Erik picked her up and carried her to her bed, earning a whoop of surprise and a peck on the cheek. It was very nice to have her arms around his neck again, but he relinquished his hold and set her atop the quilt. She flopped back against the pillows with a contented sigh. He would have stood there to admire her in silence for a few more minutes had her brow not wrinkled with concern. "What is it, Christine?" Was she having second thoughts? Did she want him to wear the mask after all? _One can never be too careful._

"Two things," she began, and he braced himself. "Are you disappointed in my lack of practice? You did not say…" It was true- he had held back on any criticisms, more focused on spending some leisure time with Christine than on molding her voice. Now, though, he almost wished he had pointed out the spots of rust on her pipes. "I've lost a few notes from the top of my _tessitura_ ," she muttered abashedly. "Goodness knows what other mistakes I've made."

"An inability to reach a high E is not a mistake-" _my love_ , he almost said. "Extending your range again will take weeks of work, as you well know. That is, if you have any desire to," he added hurriedly. "Otherwise… Otherwise I would be perfectly content to proceed just as we have, if only to pass the time in your company."

She tilted her head to the side in thought. After a moment, she shook her head. "Music deserves nothing less than a wholehearted effort," Christine smiled and folded her hands. "You taught me that."

"That I did..." Erik acknowledged. He did not expect her to remember all her lessons after she left with the vicomte. "Well, if you wish to proceed with your music, allow me to be your humble accompanist."

"And something else, too," she interjected. _That's right, she had two things to say._ "Can we go outside again, just for a little bit? I promise I'll stay hidden," she added. "It doesn't even have to be tonight. We could go tomorrow, or next week. Please?"

He didn't even try to resist those pleading blue eyes of hers. "Tomorrow night," Erik acquiesced. "And I have a little surprise for you then."

Christine gasped. "What is it? Another kitten?" Ahmar, pacing on the bedcovers, mewed in protest. Having to share food and space with another cat did not appeal to her royal sensibilities. Erik stroked the kitten from head to tail and chuckled.

"No, not another kitten- though if you would like one, I'm sure I can provide."

"Then what is it?" She leaned forward, eyes wide.

"You must wait and find out."

"Not fair! You just keep it from me for your amusement."

"Good night, Christine," he teased, slipping through the doorway. Once outside, he closed the door and leaned back against it with a sigh. He was not a good man. If ever anyone deserved hell, he did, and more. Yet, in some gracious roll of the dice, he was happier than he'd ever been: he had music, he had company (in the form of a very entitled cat), and he had the love of his life sleeping in the bedroom just a few feet away. Above all, he knew he would do anything in his power to keep the contentment that settled over them both- even if it meant Christine would never know the entirety of his story.

…

When people came calling for private inspector Moreau, and a woman answered the door, they usually assumed she was the housekeeper, or maybe a well-paid maid. After all, a well-sized house in the midst of a crowded city like Paris was expensive. Paying for one required a lucrative career, not just the typical telegraph operator or secretary job.

Some walked away when she explained that she was, in fact, Inspector Moreau. It was during a dry spell (of cases, not the weather) that detective Amata Moreau sat sipping tea and enjoying the latest installment of her favorite author's romance series. Just because she worked in a man's world didn't mean she had to be a man.

 _Knock-knock-knock._

Her dark eyes flicked up from the book. _A man, probably, that was so loud. Three knocks, clearly separated. He means business- and possibly good money._ She unfurled herself from her reading chair, slipped her feet into a pair of slippers, and made her way to the front door. When she opened it and recognized the Comte de Chagny, a wave of pleasant surprise washed over her. _It's never been so good to be right._

"M. le Comte, good evening," she greeted. "How may I be of service?"

He smiled, and she narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. With the heavy rain and dim lamplight outside, it was hard to tell, but Amata knew malign smile when she saw one. _All right, maybe it's not that good._ The man stood tall enough to make eye contact even a step below the threshold. "I think you know what sort of service, Mlle. Moreau."

"Ah. Won't you come in?"

"Please." Amata moved aside to let him through, mildly uncomfortable with how broad he was. Without asking, he stripped his hat and coat off and hung it by the door, then followed her lead to the parlor. When he sat, she retrieved a notepad and a pen. "So, who would you like me to investigate?"

The count leaned back and folded his hands. "I'd rather talk about money first, _mademoiselle_." His hair, tied back in a short horsetail, was damp from the rain. "Provided you hold up your end of the agreement, there's a good sum of money to be made for both you and I."

She sat in her chair and flipped to the first available page of her notebook. "And what sort of agreement is that?" He still wore that slightly smug, too-cold smile.

"I want you to investigate someone I don't know. It will be dangerous, but I suppose your line of work involves catching criminals anyway- or am I wrong?"

Amata decided she didn't like his condescending tone at all. "What do you want me to do, investigate someone or capture them?"

"Both." From his coat pocket he drew a roll of papers, all very official-looking and newly printed. Amata took them in hand and flipped through them. _Interesting… An assassin? And with a bounty on his head in several countries, no less. Still, bounty hunting in France is illegal as far as I know._ The nobleman gestured towards the papers. "I do have the funds for trips out of Europe, once you discern this man's location."

She scanned the pages. "Well, you seem to have done some preliminary research, but I'll have to get documents mailed in from the Ottoman and Iran. I assume you'll reimburse me as well as pay for hours on the job?"

"Oh, I'll do more than reimburse you. How would you like a cut of the bounty? All exchanged for francs at the proper rate, I assure you." She looked up in surprise.

"I don't charge extra. It's my policy." Indeed, she made a habit of charging reasonably for those wives looking for their cheating and deadbeat husbands, those orphans who wanted to know their birth parents, businessmen who wanted background on suspicious employees. She'd done quite well for herself, and had no need for extra incentive. The whole reason she'd chosen this line of work was to help those in need.

"Mlle. Moreau, I am offering you the opportunity to become a millionaire," de Chagny said with a raised eyebrow.

"And I am telling you that I do not need or want your money- aside from my normal rate of fifteen francs per hour plus the cost of the job."

He smiled that nasty smile again. "How charitable of you, considering I found you out by reputation. Word on the street is you are both skilled and discreet."

"Work is work." She flipped through the papers again, most of which were reward posts. "I don't normally get clients like you, but I'm bored, so I'll do it." _And this looks like a challenge- this man is a criminal in some places, a hero in others, and travelled quite a lot, by the looks of it. I wonder how much it costs to get shipments from Persia?_

De Chagny chuckled. "You certainly know your worth. I admire that." She glanced up and saw his admiration was mostly for her form, but that wasn't unusual. It was just uncomfortable. "And how do you take payments?"

"Weekly, by mail. Cash is preferable, but if you must write a check, make it out to Det. Amata Moreau."

He stood and stuck his hand out. "A deal, then?" When she rose and also went for a solid shake, he lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. She had to breathe deep and hide her shudder.

"Yes…a deal. Leave a return address on the pay envelope and I will send information of the progress of the case." After too long a moment, he released her hand and headed towards the door.

"I look forward to it." He pulled his coat on again and let himself out. "Good evening, Mlle. Moreau."

Her eyes followed him until he hailed a passing cab and disappeared into the night. Then, with a sigh, she closed the door and paced back to her reading chair. _Well. That was rather unsavory._ She surveyed the documents one more time. _Still, for an intriguing job like this…I'd put up with almost anything._ The thrill of an upcoming chase coursed through her. It had been ages since she'd done anything _really_ fun.

 _A missing Persian assassin? Tens of thousands in rewards, and not even a ticket stub to track his movements? I wouldn't miss this for the world._

…

Much to Erik's dismay, the freezing rain of Monday night continued through Tuesday, effectively cancelling their expedition outside. He had so hoped to make Christine happy, but the combination of heavy sleet and damaged skin would make her ill, and that was the last thing he desired. Instead of going out and implementing his plan to cure her fears of fire, he bundled her up in no less than three blankets (one cotton, one wool, and one quilted) and tucked a hot water bottle down in the folds of fabric.

"Erik," she said from beneath the layers, "I'm not going to catch my death from a bit of cold. And I can't find my book!" Very helpfully, he pulled the book out from under the pile and held it up where she could see. Much to his surprise, however, she was not satisfied by this. "Really, if you're going to hold the book you might as well sit and read it to me. I can't hold it when I'm confined by blankets."

He just blinked.

Christine sighed. "Please sit down."

"As you wish," he answered rather stiffly, and sat very upright on the settee beside her, book in hand. When he did, she wriggled around in the blankets and pushed two layers off and onto Erik's lap. "Christine!" he chided. "You must keep warm! Winter is coming, you know."

"And if I have to wear blankets, you do too," she insisted. "Your perpetual suit is not as warm as outerwear, and I daresay you have less meat on you than I do." It was true that he had gained a bit of weight since the advent of regular meals, but he was still nowhere near normal.

"Oh, very well…" he muttered, secretly enjoying her fussing. It also helped to know they were under the same blanket. And she was right- it was more comfortable with accumulated body heat shielding his legs from the cold air. "You were reading…the tale of Loki's binding beneath the world tree? That's a rather dark story for night reading."

She tucked her arms back under her portion of quilt and pulled it up to her chin. "Would you read it to me, please?"

"I thought you preferred to do things yourself," he prodded. After all, she was healing and now did most things on her own, even bandage changes.

"I like to hear your voice." And just like that, he caved to her request. Plenty of people heard his hypnotic ghost's voice and were captured, but only Christine professed an affection for his speech. For once, he was glad for his early years with the gypsy freak show: she was very entertained by his ability to speak in all the different characters' voices.

For what seemed like a long time, he gave life to the tale of the golden god Baldur's death and the giant Loki's subsequent capture and torture. He detailed the giant's prank on the Aesir and the victim's mortal wounding via a twig of holly, and his shape-shift into a fish in an attempt to escape the angry gods. At last, he came to the gruesome details of the torture: Loki's sons turned into wolves, one of which killed the other. In the typical barbaric fashion of the far north, Loki was tied to the world tree with his son's own entrails, constantly in agony from snake's venom dripped into his eyes.

On one hand, Erik was glad the harrowing tale was over. On the other hand, he disliked the loss of Christine's rapt attention. Seeing that this story was the last in the volume, he set the book aside and looked to her. "That was an end befitting such a villain, was it not?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. Those Aesir gods have a terrible way of taking justice too far. Really, to have to watch your children kill and eat each other?" A shudder wracked her shoulders despite the warmth of the blankets. "Horrible. After millennia trapped under a tree, it's no wonder he'd want to destroy the world!"

"Ah, but Loki was more than just a prankster- he did commit murder," Erik reasoned. Vaguely, he wondered how he looked, conversing normally. He hadn't had the chance to really look at himself since childhood.

"True, and I don't condone murder, especially for amusement," Christine mused, "but I do see him more as misunderstood than villainous. After all, he's responsible for many of the gods' special attributes, like Sif's golden hair, and Odin's horse- who also happens to be his son."

"So you consider context as important as one's actual deeds?" _If so, it's no wonder she puts up with me. She has enough of my context to discount some of my crimes._ Even so, if she knew everything…would she be so kind? He forced the thought from his mind. If he had his way, she'd never know of his grievous sins in Persia.

"In some cases… At any rate, Loki was simply different, and thus ostracized," she concluded with a slight yawn. "Only his wife Sigyn stayed by him in the end, and I admire her for that." Erik smiled. It was hard to be conscious of his face when his beloved treated him so normally, and even affectionately. He'd never imagined he would discuss ancient Norse tales with a blanket over his lap and a pure-hearted woman beside him.

"And now, my dear, I believe it is time for you to sleep."

"Ah, I suppose," she agreed with another, wider yawn. He winced as her chapped lips almost cracked, and made a mental note to retrieve lip salve the next time he went out. Christine walked the short distance to bed and climbed in, not bothering with the covers.

"Is there anything else you require?" he asked, reluctant to leave her presence just yet.

She frowned for a moment. "Do you have a bed that you sleep in?"

The question took him aback. "Ah- I was not aware my sleeping situation mattered. I sleep much less than you do," he justified, "so I do not require a whole bed. The settee suits me well enough."

"Then will you do something for me?" An uncharacteristic slyness crossed her face. "I'll kiss you goodnight if you promise to do it."

 _A goodnight kiss? On these lips? Oh, how wonderful that sounds! But…_ Erik's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why the bribe, Christine?"

"Because…you might be reluctant?" Her shoulders went up and down in a small shrug. "I know a new bed will cost something, and might be hard to deliver or build…"

"You require a new bed? Is this one not to your satisfaction?" To his knowledge, the full-size bed bed frame was both sturdy and aesthetically pleasing, and the mattress was soft down.

"Oh no- it would just be… Well, I know we aren't married, or anything like that, but…" Those soft eyes went down with embarrassment. "There isn't any room for your bed anywhere else but in this room." She clutched the blankets again as if they could shield her from embarrassment. "Everyone needs a comfortable place to sleep."

He folded his arms in thought. _I have no complaint against sharing quarters with Christine. The experience could be rather pleasant._ After a while, he nodded to himself. Yes, there was a practical solution; it was just a matter of whether Christine accepted his offer. "Well, you are right; it would be terribly hard to cart an entire bed down here. However, if you are so concerned with my sleeping arrangement, there is a simpler solution." The words were out before he considered the consequences. _You'll frighten her again_ , mocked an inner voice. _Remember what happened the last time you proposed?_

 _Do shut up_ , Erik snapped back- but his palms sweat, his heart rate increased, and his mouth went dry.

"What is it?" Her brow creased in that adorable way he loved.

"Hypothetically-" he stammered out, "hypothetically- we could marry and share the one bed already here."


	11. Chapter 11

Stunned, Christine stared at Erik for a good minute. He didn't move as he stared back, expression changing from hope to doubt to embarrassment. She never knew him to be embarrassed about anything, least of all his affection for her. _Or perhaps he has been embarrassed and I could never tell with the mask on. I never knew he had the ability to flush like that._

Erik broke the silence first. "I- ahem- I only mean that as a potential solution, if you wish. What I meant to say is- well, that's what ordinary people do, is it not?"

A sudden fit of giggles overcame her. "Ordinary? Oh, Erik, you are anything but ordinary!" When he shied away with a miffed look, she took a deep breath to calm herself. "No, please don't take offense, I just-" _Oh dear, I can't let him think I don't take his proposal seriously._ "You think ordinary people get married to economize?"

"I hardly think this is a humorous situation," he huffed, though she saw a hint of a smile touch his mouth. "Ordinary people _do_ get married for all sorts of reasons! Economy is just one, though only a secondary one in this case," he protested.

"Oh? And the primary reason?" she prompted, still smiling broadly.

"I love you."

She stopped laughing, sighed, and motioned for him to come closer. When he approached she pulled him closer still, until he leaned near enough that she could whisper. With gentle hands, she held him and said, "That's a good reason. I love you too." Then she kissed him, holding on when he almost pulled back from surprise.

When they parted, both were smiling. Christine's lips were still slightly curled with mirth. Erik's hands clutched the blankets, relishing the warmth in the dim light from the door. To ensure he was not misinterpreting the situation, he asked:

"Would you be opposed to marriage? I don't mean to ask now…but that generally is what two people who love each other do." To his dismay, she seemed a bit crestfallen.

"I… I would not be opposed, no."

He hurried to add: "I expect nothing more than what we have now- just to hold you is blessing enough." Knowing her horrible experiences with her former fiancé, and his own shyness around marital relations, Erik decided their hypothetical marriage could remain unconsummated. After all, who was to know?

Christine's relief was almost palpable. She smiled broadly. "Well then, when- if- you should propose to me I will gladly accept."

"And I would propose at this very moment, but I'm afraid I must do as custom dictates in this instance," he said rather archly. The confidence he often exuded when masked returned, and had a curious effect on her insides.

"You've never been one to follow custom," she ribbed. "Why the change?"

He backed away, towards the door, graceful steps echoing slightly. "Because the future lady of the house deserves only the most romantic proposal." He stopped a moment to admire her one last time, smiling because he couldn't help but do so.

"And sweet dreams to you too," she murmured. Then he closed the door and was gone. She pulled the covers up to her chin and shut her eyes. Both the sheets and her heart were pleasantly warm throughout the night.

…

The following morning, Erik ventured outside to find the sky clear and icy blue. His breath clouded in the air like puffs of smoke. Winter had always been his favorite season, and since Christine requested a trip outside, he now had an excuse to enjoy the weather. A bright day like this was perfect for his purpose as well.

He returned to the smell of the ground meat scraps of Ahmar's breakfast. The kitten had grown quite a bit in the past weeks, and was now active enough to pounce on the trailing hems of Christine's dressing gowns (well, they were really his dressing gowns, but she wore them better than he). He plucked the cat from her course as she scampered by and scratched her under her fuzzy chin. It was surprisingly satisfying to feel her little body purring in his hands. _Would Christine purr if I touched her?_

Then he decided that train of thought was not an appropriate one to pursue. Yes, he was a man, but her needs and comforts superseded his own. He studied the kitten's half-closed copper eyes. "She'll be a rather handsome creature, won't she?"

"She will," Christine agreed, "as soon as you let her down so she can eat." Erik placed Ahmar on the floor by her little bowl a bit reluctantly. Cats, he thought, were very nice to hold. The cat attacked the dish at a run, chomping down almost more eagerly than her little teeth allowed. Then Christine sat at the kitchen table, scooting her chair in a bit with a squeak. "So, where will we go today?"

As much as he enjoyed surprising her, Erik decided too many surprises at once might ruin his objectives. "A little park on the quieter side of town. Can't have too many prying eyes about, you know." He entered the kitchen to start on breakfast. "Ah, and we will take a short expedition to the nearest pharmacy for a few items." Christine's skin was healing as well as could be expected, but he still needed to pick up lip salve, moisturizing cream, and new rolls of cotton and gauze. After weeks of use, the sheets filched from the hospital had taken on a yellowed color and refused to give up their mold-and-medicine odor. It was beneficial to his pocketbook (and his heart) that Christine required less and less bandaging every day.

"You won't be seen, will you?" The sensation of disasters at the opera might have faded from the public mind, but the phantom was still wanted by Parisian police.

"Of course not," he reassured, deftly cracking two eggs into a slowly heating pan. He could have mentioned his decades of practice slinking about in shadows, but that would have raised too many questions. At any rate, she already knew well enough how invisible he could be. "It is you I worry for. No one suspects a veiled woman dressed for winter, but should the veil rise… I am unwilling that you should experience the same humiliation I have." He knew all too well how unforgiving humans were to the macabre and ugly things of the world.

Christine came round the corner to watch him, despite the heat of the stove. After a moment, she tipped her now bald head to the side. "I would not be humiliated if someone should see me." He could see the red lines of scars and blue lines of veins under her skin, like channels through the natural pallor of her skin.

He pushed the eggs around the pan with a spoon, breaking the golden yolks. "The world is cruel, Christine, the world is wicked. If someone sees you, they will undoubtedly delight in your pain." _Perhaps she does not realize because she has yet to catch sight of a mirror. She is beautiful to me, but a city built on perfect looks will mock her._

She placed her hands over his thin shoulders. He stopped moving to consider her. "I will not be hurt by them because I know who I am. They do not know me, or you- and if they pick up their stones to throw I will walk before so not one touches you."

"But neither could I allow you to be harmed, my dear- we are at an impasse."

She had a brilliant smile. "We make quite a pair, don't we?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose we do." He set out plates for eggs and upcoming toast. _I have the most remarkable woman in the world living in my house. She could have even this cruel world eating from her palms. She certainly has me, all of me. Christine had me in her clutches from the moment she asked heaven for an angel, for in that moment she became my own._ He sniffed and wiped his nose (or rather, his lack of one) on the hanky he always kept in his breast pocket. Crying at breakfast was likely not the best way to start their day.

…

Det. Moreau rummaged through her desk drawers and huffed with frustration, tucking a strand of her dark curls back behind her ear. She really didn't know why she bothered; the stubborn strands fell back into her face as if they belonged there. On top of that, for a good half hour, the location of her tin of lip salve had evaded her. She pursed her chapped lips and glared at herself in the mirror. "Botheration!"

She had originally intended to begin her investigation of the Persian assassin with a trip to the various foreign embassies, since that was the only way to get any useful information. However, finding herself out of lip balm, she decided to put the investigation on hold. With winter in full swing outside, her mouth had swiftly become dry to the point of bleeding. _Maybe I'll charge Count Philippe de Chagny for the balm. He can afford it, rich bastard that he is._

With some reluctance, she dressed for the weather in a thick coat, scarf, and boots, letting her hair down over her cold ears. Then she trudged out towards the nearest pharmacy.

The air was stinging and cold on her fingers. She stuck her numb digits deep into her sleeves for warmth and grinned to herself. _Winter is a bit like a dog this year; it bites, and requires food and shelter to be any sort of nice._ Ice crunched beneath her soles like powdery glass. The trees were laden with icy spears from the night's sleet, sparkling under a white sky. _I suppose winter has to be my favorite season. For all his cruelty, old Boreas puts on a breathtaking show._

It took almost twenty shivering minutes to reach her destination. The warmth that greeted her upon entering the drug store prompted her to unwind the scarf over her head. Reflexively, she scanned the store for potential threats, then made her way to the aisle she knew housed her favorite brands. After picking out a rose-scented tin of balm, she paced about, running her eyes over the shelves of medicine, sweets, and convenience items. _Is there anything else I need? Not particularly, but…that licorice looks rather good. A warming herb for a chilly day like this._

The bell at the door rung, announcing more visitors. One- no, two sets of feet sounded on the hardwood floor, shaking off an accumulated crust of ice. _They must have come a good way to gather that much on their feet._ From the sound, she knew one walked lightly and the other with a practiced quiet. _Interesting…_ Unable to contain her curiosity, she poked her head around the aisle corner to observe the strangers. As she suspected, it was a man and a woman, bundled up. However, she knew at a glance that something was off. Winter called for hats and scarves, but not complete facial cover.

The man's hat was so wide brimmed that if he tipped his head, his face was rendered completely invisible. Beneath the hat was a scarf so thickly wrapped it must have been stifling in the heat of the indoors. _He covers his face as if he fears recognition. Maybe he does._ He did not remove hat or scarf upon entering.

The woman, too, was oddly dressed; she wore a man's coat, probably borrowed from the one beside her. She was a young woman, by the ease of her walk, and young women nowadays never wore the veils of widows. Her face was further muffled by another dark, wound-up scarf. Through the veil, Amata witnessed only shadows. _Perhaps she and this man are celebrities who wish to remain incognito on their day out. News reporters nowadays are merciless gossips._ Still, she never discounted intuition; her short look at the couple screamed suspicion. A second glance yielded something even more incriminating: the edge of a strip of gauze peeked out from under the woman's long coat sleeves. _Is she hurt in some way?_ Amata had dealt with enough battered women to spot serious injuries, even from a distance.

As the two made their way towards her section, she moved to the opposite end of the store, senses trained on their every move. _And now they've selected an odd array of items: lip salve, candy, and more bandages. Could an abuser buy bandages for their victim? I suppose so. People have done stranger things._ She had met women so in the thrall of their captors that they insisted they were being taken care of, even as they accumulated bruises and broken bones.

The couple moved about together, always one hand on the other, and without a word, paid for their things. The man behind the counter barely looked up as the 'hat-man' handed him an abnormally large bill and received several smaller ones in change. Amata did look, though. Anyone who possessed bills that large was either obscenely rich or a criminal- or both.

They left, bell on the doorpost ringing as they did so. Det. Moreau did not wait; she paid for her licorice and lip salve, and hurried out to follow the strange man and his veiled woman. Across the city they went, sometimes through the busiest byways and through the shopping district. _Damn, they're good at slipping away. They probably know they're being followed._ She steeled her resolve and ran across cab-filled avenues, taking shortcuts whenever sure.

After three mad dashes across intersections, she trotted to the next street over and was about to cross when-

"Look out!" A horse neighed, half-screaming with alarm. Amata was forced to dive out of the way and into the freezing gutter as the cab horse's hooves flailed above. She landed hard on her front, and the impact knocked the air from her lungs. Her poor fingers felt bruised on the hard-packed snow. Still disoriented, she struggled to her feet as the cabbie rushed to see she wasn't injured. Vaguely, she registered the flustered man asking if she was well, and nodded, brushing off her coat.

 _Damn. They've gone._ She pursed her lips in a frustrated grimace. _Botheration!_

…

Christine noticed Erik's ever so slight change of pace when they left the druggist. She said nothing, only revised her steps to match his. _Maybe he's in a hurry to reach that little park? He never liked people staring._ The citizens of Paris did not look overly long at them, to her relief- instead they hurried on their ways. Winter clothing and scarves up to their eyes were not unusual. Still, he did not take the expected route to the park. Along the way, she followed his direction through several crowds of Christmas shoppers and across busy streets. She knew better to question his movements. If Erik felt they needed to hide in one direction or another, he knew better than anyone how to stay invisible.

Finally, they slowed to a leisurely walk and entered the park's gates. When they were shielded from view by a dense line of trees, Christine sat on a small bench, resting her feet. "That was a rather brisk walk, Erik."

"It was, it was." He looked out towards the main section of park for a moment.

 _He must be anxious._ Hoping to take his mind off imaginary dangers, she swung her feet and clasped her gloved fingers together. "So, you mentioned something about a surprise? I've been waiting two days now, you know!"

He turned back. His face might be obscured, but she knew from his tone that he smiled behind all the layers. "Well, you will wait no longer. I only ask that you remain calm as you can-this experience might be somewhat harrowing," he cautioned, reaching into his coat pocket. He paused that way for a second, waiting for an answer.  
"I promise- I won't scream," Christine reassured with some humor. _What could he possibly have in store?_ Her eyes narrowed as he withdrew a matchbox and a long, paper-wrapped box from the folds of his coat. She did not scream, but she was hard-pressed to keep her breathing steady. Even though she was not touching the matches, her fingers clenched and shook slightly. _What is that? Is he planning to light a torch? I hope not._

Erik watched her reactions carefully and moved slowly. First, he unwrapped the long box, set it on the bench, and picked a long, grayish stick from the bunch inside. "I must strike the match," he announced. "Can you manage?" Christine gulped in a breath and nodded. "Remember, we are surrounded with ice and snow. Nothing can burn you." She watched his gentle eyes. _He is doing this for me, so for him I will remain strong._ "I will not let you be burned."

When the tip of the match exploded into flame, she flinched, but forced herself to watch. Erik held the tip of the long stick to the fire for several seconds. "Perhaps you have seen these before, Christine. Children play with them during holidays, or so I hear." Her heart thudded in her chest, so loud that his voice was almost drowned out. With a great fizzing, the stick lit up and began to shed bright white sparks that dropped into the icy grass. Christine bit her lip as he dropped the match on a patch of frozen mud and stamped it out.

"You need not touch it- but if you did…" To her alarm, he peeled off one glove, holding the sparkler far too close to his face.

"Erik!" But he did not stop. Instead, he put his dry, thin hand right next to the tip of the miniature firework. The bright sparks danced along his papery skin and fell to their doom below. Christine clapped a hand over her mouth and prayed.


	12. Chapter 12

"Erik!" Christine yelped. "What are you doing?" He lowered his hands, letting the sparkler shower its light on the ground instead of his hand. The firework still fizzled and spat, as if angry. "Doesn't it- doesn't it hurt?" She swallowed hard. In spite of the cold, a sweat had broken out over her skin.

"Not a bit," he said. Then he tipped his head to the side as if reconsidering. It was very hard to decipher his thoughts with his whole face covered. _It was so much easier without the mask…_ The mask was not the primary issue in her mind, however. After a second, Erik's shoulders went up and down in an uncharacteristic shrug. "Well, it does hurt a bit, but not enough to injure. Look-" he held out his hand to her. "I remain unscathed."

Tentatively, Christine leaned forward just far enough to see. It was true; his skin was just as pale and dry as before, with no red splotches or any sign of burning. "You see, Christine," he said softly, "fire is only as dangerous as you allow it to be."

Her eyes filled with tears. A lesser man would have left her to her fears, but Erik had gone out of his way to help her. _The least I can do is cooperate. I don't want to be afraid forever._ Once again, she found herself incredibly grateful. He had done his best to heal her body, and now he had taken on the task of healing her mind. She could have leapt up and hugged him, except he still held the sparking stick in his hand.

"Christine- shall I put it out?"

"Oh, it's not that," she sniffled behind her scarf and veil. "I- thank you, Erik. Again," she added with a watery smile.

"For this?" He held up the sparkler, which was now burned about halfway through.

"For knowing what I need." She reached for the little stick, shaking somewhat. _It won't hurt me_ , she chanted to herself. _It's just a little light. A child's toy._ He still looked uncertain. "I won't drop it, if that's what you're worried about," she said, not half as sure of herself as she sounded. "And I won't faint, either." This time her voice trembled.

Erik very carefully passed the hissing, spitting firework into her hands. She did not remove her gloves, instead letting the miniature stars glance off the fabric and fizzle out. Gradually, just as the lit part approached her fingertips, the fire guttered and went out, having reached the end of its fuel. Christine surprised herself with her own disappointment. _It was so pretty when lit._ Now all that remained was a blackened stick.

She set the burnt on the bench beside her. For the first time in a month, she felt as if she could breathe again. "That was…nice," she decided, searching for the right word. Her companion, who had been holding his breath, let it out in an audible sigh.

"Did you know these come in several colors, dependent on their composition of metals and salts?"

"Really? May I see?"

By the time Christine had viewed all the colors, she found her hands no longer shook holding either matches or sparklers, no matter how brightly they burned. If Erik could become a conjurer and tame fire, she could certainly learn from him. The crowning achievement, however, was when she ventured to strike a match herself and did so without dropping either matchbox or match.

If she hadn't been holding fire, she'd have thrown her arms around Erik in celebration. _He'll have to settle for a kiss when we get home_ , she thought. _It's been such a good day_.

…

 _Ugh. It's been a terrible day._ Nadir leaned forward and rested his goatee on his palms, eyes heavy. He'd gone to work early that morning hoping to finish by mid-afternoon and spend the rest of the day with Biyu, perhaps exploring the nearby open-air market or skating on the newly frozen pond in the park. However, his boss had taken his early arrival as 'initiative' and slapped three whole stacks of documents in front of him to read, copy, and file away- never mind that half of them were in a language not his own. _I only got this job because he assumed I was Turkish, not Persian_ , he mentally groaned. _I suppose it's a good thing I learned the basics following Erik and his mischief._

Over the top of his piles of work, he could see Biyu, who had been chosen to work the front information desk that day. With the assistant manager stalking about on the floor, he'd been unable to get up and talk to her without risking a reprimand. So, he was forced to look and not speak as he scribbled and typed and tried to get everything done as fast as possible. _She looks exquisite today and I haven't been able to tell her_ , he complained to himself. Biyu had dressed in a more traditional Chinese top today, which complimented her long, flowing skirt and even matched the flowered comb in her hair- not to mention her more demure pink lip color as opposed to the usual bright red.

 _Ah, she looks like springtime in this dismally cold winter_ , he sighed. Hoping no one would notice if he let his hands rest, he continued to watch his lover as she worked, signing off on visitors to the embassy, collecting signatures, answering questions in her adorably accented (but grammatically correct) French. _Oh, what's this?_

A woman in a tailored suit and heavy coat entered and approached the desk. Biyu greeted her, as was custom, and took her signature for records. It wasn't every day a woman visited the embassy. Normally there were visits from politicians and various government officials. _Perhaps this woman is married to some higher-up._ Biyu and the lady seemed to be having a conversation. Then she pointed him out. Nadir sat up straight as the woman strode over to speak with him.

"How may I be of service, miss?" he asked, as was customary. The woman tucked a strand of dark, curled hair behind one ear, which had become dislodged with the removal of her hat. "You are the bookkeeper, correct? I'd like to see all available records about…" she leafed through the folder she held in hand and pulled out a news clipping. "This incident, the assassination of a Russian ambassador to Persia in 1900."

Nadir felt his gut clench as he scanned the article. There was no photograph included, since foreign disputes attracted little attention, but he knew exactly what she was looking for. Yes, he remembered that incident very well- it was the one that had pushed Erik to breaking point, the one that made him long for a home in Paris. The memory alone almost made him ill. He swallowed, then cleared his throat as if he'd intended to. "Let me see… yes, I think some files are available, but only to those with a signature from a government office," he said apologetically. _What is this woman looking for? Anyone snooping about a decade-old murder scene can't be good news- and this one involves Erik._

"Oh, that's all right, I've got a signature. Will this do?" She took a sheet of paper from her envelope and held it out for him to see and smiled. "I work for the Comte de Chagny, you see." He swore mentally. This was a private detective's contract, and if this woman was looking for Erik he had to stall- but he couldn't. There, on the bottom line of the contract, was a flamboyant scribble of letters: the official signature of Philippe de Chagny, rich, powerful, and blue-blooded.

Nadir felt his hands grow clammy. "That does nicely, yes," he muttered. "Well, follow me- though I don't think there's much information, we're not the Persian embassy, you know." _It's a good thing the Persian embassy is in Marseille, not Paris. With any luck she'll be waiting for records to be mailed in. That will give Erik enough time to flee._ He made his way to the back room where all records were sorted by date and topic. _Yes, that's it- tonight I'll just pay him a visit and let him know the Comte has employed a detective to look for him. I'll tell him to get out, fast._

"Oh, that's all right," she said cheerily. "I've already sent them an official request via radiotelegraph."

 _Damn these modern devices! Now the delivery will be a few days at most, not weeks._ Attempting to stall even further, Nadir pretended he did not know exactly where the needed documents were. He did know, though; he'd known where those particular records were since his first day on the job. Numerous times he'd been tempted to destroy those papers. They incriminated his best friend, drawing too many similarities between the opera ghost and the Shahanshah's assassin. No one would really notice, not unless they were really clever and paid attention to the past year's news, but after a lifetime of covering for Erik, Nadir had learned to employ the utmost caution.

"Let's see, where… Ah, I'll try by date first. What year was it again?"

"1900."

"Right, so…" He paced along the shelves, tracing dates with one finger until he reached a section tagged with 1900 and subdivided by month.

"The article was published on the ninth of October," the woman said very helpfully.

"Ah, yes," Nadir acknowledged, masking his growing irritation. _I remember._ "Here we go, all records regarding activities in…"

"Persia." He noticed with some smugness that the woman was growing somewhat annoyed as well. Then he reached for the folder labelled after the country, humming, and paged through the first few documents. The lady's mouth twitched. The folder was hundreds, if not thousands of pages thick.

"That's…January…February…" She looked away, apparently quite bored with his very slow counting of months. He persisted still. _Maybe if I bore her enough she'll go away._

There was no such luck, however. Nadir counted through the months as he flipped through, then through each date from August onward. "Eleventh of September…thirteenth of September…" he droned on, all the while struggling to keep his breathing steady. He got the impression that if anything slipped, the papers would be found. When he reached October, the woman gave an exaggerated yawn, as if to show her weariness of his counting.

"Seventh of October…tenth of October… Oh, dear- I'm afraid there's nothing for the ninth of October." He made one last attempt to shake her dogged hunt.

"Maybe you've just missed it. Here, let me look." She grabbed at the file. He let go of it- but was not defeated yet. With a not-so-accidental flip of his wrist, the stack was upended. Papers fluttered up into the air and down again, shuffling themselves on the way. A moment later both persons in the room stared down at the pile of hopelessly mixed certificates and reports with a mixture of chagrin and resignation. The lady gave a very loud, unladylike swear.

"I am so sorry, here, let me-" Nadir hemmed and hawed as he knelt to pick up the papers. "Pardon, could you hold this? And this?" He retrieved each document and handed them up to her in order. Eventually her arms were so full of paper she could hardly see the floor. "Now, I think I have it."

"You'd better," she grumbled. _I really am very sorry to obstruct your work. You're probably a good investigator and a decent person, but I simply cannot allow Erik to fall into your hands!_ Nadir eased a slip of paper out of the tall stack and presented it rather victoriously.

"This is it, I'm certain. Now, if you'll just hand the rest of those off to me- oof!" She pushed the messy stack into his chest, obviously glad to be done with all the mucking about.

"Thank you," she muttered. "I'll just have this copied." She scanned the paper, and, satisfied with its date and content, adjusted her scarf and tucked her hat under her arm.

"I can do that for you," he volunteered. "It is my job, after all." He grinned.

"No!" the detective said a little too forcefully, "Thank you, you've been more than enough help." She turned, papers in hand, and exited the filing room in a huff.

"Have a good day," Nadir called after her. He waited until she was gone to settle down and re-sort the great stack. Once everything was in order, he reached under the shelf where he'd scooted the last few pages. _Ha! The joke is on you now, my nosy friend. You can't possibly know where your quarry headed without the second half of the report._ He tucked the papers into their allotted place, shoved the whole stack into its folder, and replaced it on the shelf.

 _That should stall her enough. She'll never find him in time- she'd have to go through every murder report in Europe for the last ten years. Now all I have to do is persuade Erik to flee…_

…

Christine's recovered confidence had several startling effects on life in the hole she and Erik called home. First, because she preferred ambient warmth rather than wrapping herself in three quilts, she lit a fire in the hearth without hesitation. It was rather nice to watch her distribute the small flames under tinder and warm her hands by the dancing light she once feared. Second, once she had persuaded him that she was quite well enough to cook a whole meal by herself, thank you very much, he tasted proper Swedish pea soup for the first time. He had to admit it was far better than the dainty, monotone French cuisine he was used to.

Thirdly, once they settled on the settee for a bit of reading with dinner (in mugs, since soup bowls spilled too much), Christine had no need of extra blankets, and settled for a light nightgown she'd found in her closet. She curled up under his arm as he read aloud, gulping down more of the _ärtsoppa_ between paragraphs (it really was quite delicious). The reading for that night started out innocently enough, and Erik had no qualms about simply reading Christine to sleep as he'd done many times.

It just happened that the libretto she'd chosen from his stash was Bizet's _Carmen_. He thought it was an odd selection for the sort of reading that lulled a mind to sleep, but when he stole a glance at her, she seemed entirely alert even with her head resting against his shoulder. _Perhaps she is nostalgic for her days in the spotlight. The role of Carmen would have been a bit awkward for her then, being so shy, but I must admit- hearing her sultry lower range might be very appealing._ He shook himself from his rumination, scolding himself. _Carmen_ was a seductive opera, much like his _Don Juan Triumphant_ \- and thinking of Christine all dressed up as Aminta would only torture his imagination. But oh, what sweet torture it was!

"I've always loved the role of Carmen," Christine sighed, staring into the fire. "She is quite charming, you know. She just uses it the wrong way." Then she hummed a few of the lyrics, the very lines he'd been reading a moment ago.

Erik started. Music without their usual teacher-student dynamic left him unprepared to deal with the lovely low notes he'd just been fantasizing about. He moistened his mouth with another mouthful of soup before speaking. "Yes, her seductive tendencies eventually lead to her grisly death." _Now is a good time to change the subject._

"Oh, I don't know about that." He turned to her and saw an expression on her face reminiscent of Carmen herself; flirtatious, flushed with the heat of the fireplace, eyelids lowered slightly- utterly beautiful despite the vicious claws of scar tissue wrapped over her face. "It was Don José's obsession with her." She left the sentence at that.

 _What does she mean, 'obsession'? Is she referring to my obsession for her?_ Thoughts spinning, Erik cleared his throat and attempted to return to the libretto, reading out in Don José's voice: " _Do not talk to me anymore! Do you hear me? Say no more, I forbid it!_ " Unfortunately for his ruffled composure, Christine knew the next lines. With a mischievous glint in her blue eyes, she sang out Carmen's conversation with herself, eyes locked on his.

" _I am going to my friend Lillas Pastia's! Yes, but all alone one gets bored, and real pleasures are for two._ "

He huffed. _Damnation! She knows what she does to me- but I can't touch her, I mustn't._ Still, he let her sing Carmen's teasing. She sounded too bewitching for him to stop her, even as she reached the second stanza. _I'll just let her have her fun-_ "Christine, what…" His question died on his lips as she withdrew from his hold with all the grace of a former dancer and turned a very pretty twirl just a few feet away.

She moved to the song's playful tempo, silhouette in stark contrast against the light that glowed through her nightgown. He saw the outline of her lithe figure, muscle memory keeping her in perfect form. Between pirouettes, like a good ballerina, she 'spotted,' keeping her gaze on him to keep balance so her head was last to turn. _She's doing that on purpose_ , he realized. She could have chosen any spot in the room as her reference, but she chose to keep that captivating gaze on him. At this point Erik found himself unable to look away. _She told me she was not afraid. Dare I hope…?_

In that moment, he was her helpless Don José, hopelessly lost in her spell and loving every moment. Christine held her arms out towards him as the sensual, undulating notes flowed from her lips.

" _Who wants to love me? I will love him! Who wants my heart? It's for the taking!_ "


	13. Chapter 13

Christine thanked the heavens her burns were almost completely healed. Daily bathing and bandage changes let her grow accustomed to the new patterns over her skin even if she never saw her own face. Whatever concoction it was that Erik used as ointment certainly did wonders. Now all that remained was a mass of superficial scabs across her front and arms. Despite the mottled, puckered markings across every inch, she was grateful for her otherwise good health- and the benefits thereof.

One benefit of growing her skin back was that she could dance just as she had at the opera, picking up steps from Meg and the other girls. Being the disciplined sort, she had never let her body grow stiff or lax. Her voice had suffered without Erik's instruction, but she never slacked practicing her dance steps- and she was glad of it now!

With each of 'Don José's' pleas for her to cease, she inched closer, a thrill building in her heart as Erik's molten gold eyes followed her graceful _arabesque allongé_ all the way up, from hip to ankle. Oh, he might have been playing along with the script, but she had a feeling he truly appreciated her flexibility. She swallowed hard as he- or Don José, rather- gave in:

" _I am like a drunken man, if I yield, if I give in, you'll keep your promise? Ah! If I love you…_ " He reached out, and she took his hands in hers, returning both feet to rest flat on the rug beneath. Christine knew how immersive music was to Erik. If they were recreating Carmen's seduction of her brigadier lover, he would take her words literally.

" _Yes… We'll dance…_ " They were to be married; and after what the viscount had done to her, what did it matter if she offered herself sooner rather than later? _Carmen_ seemed the most appropriate way to let him know she wanted him more than platonically. In her mind, there were no easier manners in which to tell him something like 'I've been eyeing your figure for a long while.'

At that, he leapt to his feet, swept her about so she was flush against him, and kissed her more enthusiastically than he'd ever dared, open mouthed and a little clumsy. Christine gasped and clutched him to her. The dry texture of his face was familiar now, and she ran her fingertips from temple to jaw. Any other woman might have run in terror from such an advance, but she relished it.

Erik released her so suddenly she almost fell. "Erik, what-" He silenced her with a finger at her lips. He wasn't suddenly doubtful, as she'd suspected. Instead, he had his gaze trained on the door. Somewhat miffed at having his focus stolen, she let the tip of her tongue just brush the underside of his index, more to get his attention than continue her advance.

It was almost funny how he jumped in shock. "Christine!"

She gave him her most innocent smile. He pouted in return. Then he headed towards the kitchen with an almost-purred promise of his own: "Rest assured we will continue this later, little minx."

Just then, a loud thumping sounded at the door. _He must have heard someone approach from outside._ When he emerged from the kitchen, he was wearing one of his spare masks. _I really don't know why he bothers, there's only one person who could possibly be here…_

As predicted, Nadir entered, and a now irate Erik glared most intensely at him. The Persian did not concern himself with a greeting, since the masked man beat him to it. "You have abominable timing, _daroga_ ," he hissed. "This had better be life-or-death. Or your death. Or perhaps I'll give in to my constant urge to throttle you for once."

Nadir wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve. "It is, it is, just- give me a moment," he panted, "to catch my breath." He rested his hands on his knees for a moment. "You know- you know, I sprinted all the way here."

"Yes, yes, now don't waste your breath. What the devil do you want?" Christine had to giggle at Erik's impatience.

"I came to warn you," he said, straightening. "You have to leave Paris." He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.

"What? Why?" Christine crossed her arms and walked over to where the two men stood. Nadir gave her a curious look. _Why does he look at me so?_

"Christine?"

"Yes, it's me- who else?" She frowned in confusion. _Do I really look so different?_ But the thought crossed her mind that she did look quite different. Nadir's eyes avoided hers for the remainder of the conversation. Erik glowered, silently daring him to say something about her altered appearance.

"The Comte de Chagny, he's after you. I don't know how he knows, maybe he doesn't- but he's hired an investigator, and she's closing in fast."

His mouth tightened as he took stock of the situation. "How fast?"

Nadir's voice lowered, as if he were afraid his words would escape. "She's found the reports on _the Russian_. I've done my best to stall, but it'll just be days before the rest of the information comes by mail." _The Russian? Who is this person? I knew Erik was involved in something nefarious long ago, thanks to Raoul, but…_

Erik spat out what Christine was sure was a Persian curse. "Of all the things- and of all the times!" He turned to her sorrowfully, shaking his head. "I am sorry for this, Christine. If the police are so close behind me, I must go. It is no longer safe for you here."

"I want to go with you!" she declared. "Besides, where could I possibly stay?"

"You are not going," Erik insisted vehemently. _Do my ears deceive me, or is that a hint of panic in his voice?_ "Do you understand? There are things in the world- _things I have done_ -" he choked out, "that you must never know."

"And what- do you hide from me now, after so long?" she burst out. "I promised you I would stay no matter what, Erik. You know- I gave you my soul from the moment we met. Does that mean so little?" Angry tears filled her eyes. _We'd been having such a nice evening, and now he's back to his fearful secrets._ Nadir's hand on her shoulder shook her from her outburst.

"Please, Christine- this is not something we have any control over," he said gently. "If you were to travel with him, he would certainly be caught, and you with him."

She bit her lip and dropped her gaze. As much as she hated it, M. Khan was right. Erik, with all his secrets, was safest without her to hamper his hiding. The Persian ex-policeman sighed heavily and folded his hands. "You can stay with a close friend of mine, a Mlle. Biyu Li. She's already prepared for your arrival."

Christine stared at the floor. She had dreamed of a sweet world in which to live with her Erik, where they promised themselves to each other and lived in peace. Now that dream dissolved; Erik was still a wanted man, still running and hiding. It mattered not if she loved him, and it was not his fault, either. Love alone could not destroy a criminal record, just as love had no power to repair his deformed face or her scarred body.

"Christine…" Erik beseeched softly. He touched her hand.

"Erik- we must discuss plans. There are a few routes I have in mind." Nadir pulled him away, out into the tunnel, closing the door behind them. Christine was left to contemplate in the growing darkness.

…

"Would you for once in your life cease your meddling?" Erik growled as soon as the door was shut. "I will not leave her thinking I have abandoned her!" As much as he understood Christine's sudden anger, it still stung. It stung because he knew she was afraid. _I would spend every minute in fear if Christine had to leave me in a like manner, running and hiding like a rat._

"Keep yourself together, man!" Nadir argued back. "She'll be just fine. Your safety is my first priority." His jaw clenched in frustration. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket. "You can take the Orient Express to Strasbourg, it's the easiest way. If you return all the way east, though, any bounty hunter could be after your head, not just this detective woman."

Erik snatched the paper and looked it over. "No- any regular mode of transportation can be tracked."

"What about horseback? You could retreat to the countryside- Rouen, maybe."

"Poetic justice," Erik muttered. "Appropriate." _Yes… I could hide on the train and jump off somewhere near farmland. No ticket stubs, no luggage- no way to reach me except…_ "What about dogs? Police have dogs, they could follow me with scent hounds."

"You'll have to leave fast enough that they don't suspect. I don't think this private investigator has dogs." An idea flashed in Erik's mind.

"Well, they'll have to spread themselves all over Europe. Have you purchased tickets yet?"

"No, you know that."

"Good." He folded the paper up and tucked it into his breast pocket.

"What are you planning? You never buy tickets." Nadir said suspiciously.

"Well I can't tell you, obviously. That detective might decide to question you again," he said with a rather resentful sneer. "Now, since you've unceremoniously ripped me from the love of my life, I think I'll return inside and attempt a bit of damage control." He made for the door.

"Erik, wait!" The phantom turned around with an eerie, luminescent glare. Nadir took a breath. "You ought to tell her- everything, I mean. The more she knows, the more forgiving she will be."

He cocked his head to the side. "And how do I know she won't run the moment I disappear?"

The Persian shrugged. "Trust her."

With an angry huff, Erik returned inside, slamming the door behind him.

…

When he returned to her, Christine was sitting on the edge of her bed, legs curled up under her nightgown so she resembled a cloth-encased ball. Her arms were wrapped around herself, as if a hug might keep her world from shattering. It broke his heart to see her so desolate. Physical harm was one thing, but sadness was an intangible hurt. He was helpless against it.

She heard him enter and rested her chin on her arms, eyes downcast. His heart wrenched when he saw the streaks of tears down her cheeks. Her sleeve was damp from where she'd wiped her eyes. "Oh, Christine…" She unfurled one arm from her tight-wound position and patted the place beside her. Erik sat, but did not dare touch her.

The bed moved ever so slightly as she rocked back and forth a bit, her usually quiet breath hiccuped with sobs. "I'm- I'm sorry I was angry."

"You have every right to be," he said softly. "It tears me to betray you like this." He felt hands at his cheeks, so he turned to face her and let her remove his mask. Once it was gone, she planted a short kiss on his unprepared lips.

"You are not betraying me," she murmured into the darkness of the room. "It's just- it's too soon. You've been with me every minute since the fire, and now you will go. We were going to marry, and now…" Erik felt a warm weight on his side as she leaned against him. "How can I enter the world without you at my side? You are my strength," she admitted quietly.

"As you are mine," he said, and kissed the top of her head, bare and marred as it was. "I am loathe to leave you to another's care." He put his arms around her, and there they sat in the house that suddenly seemed so small, holding on to each other for dear life. Something inside him cracked at last. He had known this day would come, despite how desperately he denied time's forward march. "My dearest, it is time for me to leave you. My sins have found me out, as it were, and now I must do penance." For all the inevitability of his fate, he could not seem to release his hold on her shoulders.

The calm resignation in his voice was alarming. "Why, Erik?" Christine cried. With fear that made her voice tremble, she asked: "What have you done?"

"You might be glad I am going, Christine. A man such as myself could never be worthy of a place at your side." His thumb traced circles at her collarbone. "I told you- you know there is blood on these hands that hold you."

"In the past, yes," she sniffed. _Ah, she is so forgiving, my Christine!_ "But I love you now."

"You say that as if love erases time," he murmured. "If you would permit me, my love, I will tell you my every dark deed; then you will know why I have to go. I must take every consideration for your wellbeing. I only ask that you remember me as a man who loves you when you return to live in the light. Will you promise me so much?"

Her fingers clutched the fabric of his jacket. "Then promise me that when you come back to me, you'll never leave again. Promise!"

He promised, even though he was almost certain he could never return. And then he began his wretched tale: "I committed my first slaughter at a young age- I do not know how old I was, since my mother destroyed my certificates on the day she sold me to a gypsy circus. They kept me as one of their freaks for years, until the day I was strong enough to reach through the steel bars of my cage with a knife in hand and pierce my captor's neck. The circus had reached a port city in Italy at that time, so in my childish attempt at escape, I boarded the nearest merchant ship, hoping the wind would carry me away.

"The wind did not carry me to safety, however. The ship headed east, to the island of Timor and was captured by pirates. I only survived because my face was so hideous they couldn't resist keeping me as their good luck charm," he said, a touch of dark humor coloring his tone. "So, from what you might call childhood to near-adulthood, I was a pirate. The captain took a morbid interest in me and taught me the fighting arts, while I scrabbled for knowledge of languages, music, anything that provided an escape from the looting and killing. The sea was my only home for almost a decade. Alas, by the time the pirates shifted their hunting grounds towards Persia and the port of Chabahar, I was a remorseless murderer." A certain calm came over him as he narrated. Christine could choose to wait for his return, or she could choose to leave him and never look back on the criminal she once called angel. Effectively, he surrendered his say; whatever came to be was not in his power to control. _I will give my utmost to return to her, but if she should leave, I will accept that as part of my punishment._

"Persia was so beautiful that I left the grimy, unintelligent men who raised me in pursuit of knowledge. Yes, the monster wished to know all things- beautiful things. I chased beauty all the way to Persia's capital and the Shahanshah's palace, leaving a trail of blood in my wake. I suppose in my adolescent depravity I had no concept that this was wrong. I was caught at last in the royal library by Nadir- he was a young man then, can you imagine?- and thrown into yet another cage. But, he saw some potential in me, and took me under his wing, as it were.

"I perfected the art of killing to the point where the Shahanshah's courtiers called me _Malak al-Maut_ , after the Mohammedan angel of death. The royal head himself decided who would die by my hand- and I ended them all without regret. I even built him a deadly palace of tricks.

"Now, this Russian that Nadir mentioned," Erik said very matter-of-factly "was an innocent. All I knew of the people I slaughtered was that they were enemies: mine, the pirates', the Shah's- it mattered little, as long as his Imperial Majesty of Persia provided me with both the money and the opportunity to create beautiful things. Russia had long been a thorn in his side, but this man was little more than a tourist who'd accidentally said something rude during an official audience. I was sent to poison him that very night.

"Do you know, Christine, how it is to watch a man die knowing his innocence? I suppose you do not- how could you? You are so good, so pure, and I have never deserved you. I chased beauty once again, back west to Paris. I was so tired of the bloodshed, but I never found anything to fulfill my soul, even years after settling under the Populaire."

She hadn't moved since he'd begun his story, but now she laced her fingers with his. Erik felt his eyes sting and his heart ache with gratitude and the love he'd longed for his whole life. "Then I found you- and all the world was well. At least for a while, you have been my happiness, strength, and comfort. I can only hope you will remain so when I return."


	14. Chapter 14

"But- you will return." Christine searched his eyes for confirmation. Erik seemed to inhale from resignation to hope. "You will come back to me?"

He gave the tiniest of smiles. "You amaze me in every way. Here I have laid out all my grisly crimes, and yet it seems- you still wish for me to come home."

"Of course I do!" She was offended at his implication. "What, you think I would run after all this time?"

"Never. I only mean to commend your strength." His thumb traced circles at her warm shoulder, feeling the divots of scars beneath the thin fabric of the gown. "I know it is far too soon for us to part ways, but I also know you will be well without me."

"Temporarily," she insisted, pressing her face to his bony chest.

"Temporarily," he agreed.

Christin sighed deeply. _Some things are unavoidable. This is one of them._ "When do you have to go?"

"By morning. I have a train to catch."

…

Det. Moreau found herself quite intrigued with her reading for the day. She voraciously scoured page after page regarding her quarry, the Persian assassin. As it turned out, he was not Persian at all; he was a white man who'd traveled to Persia by sea. Then, under the Shahanshah's wing, he was groomed into the most fearsome killer in the Orient. If it weren't for his obvious lack of moral scruples, Amata would have admired the man's efficiency and precision. Every kill was clean and quiet, no matter the method. He had a particular fondness for garroting and strangulation. To Persia, at least at the time, he'd been halfway between terrifying legend and national hero.

It was also clear this man was insanely intelligent (and perhaps literally insane). During his stay, the Persian court enjoyed a great growth in arts and culture. It was never clear from the records exactly what he created, aside from the one palace. He was, by all accounts, the exception to nature's every rule.

There was also a certain peculiarity to the reports. _All these warrants and not one sketch of what he looks like! Then again, this is the first time I've been contracted to catch a professional._ All accounts of his physical appearance remained standard: tall and wiry, with a face always masked. Tall and wiry could be anyone, anywhere in the world. Then again, tall and wiry with a knack for murder and architecture narrowed the field considerably.

She groaned and pressed her knuckles into her tired eyes. After hours of staring at small print and a substantial number of handwritten translations, she was in need of a rest. _Lunch might be a good idea. I'll just take a cab to that little bakery by the opera, the one with my favorite profiteroles._ So, gathering the most relevant documents into a folder, she donned coat and scarf to venture out into the street. It occurred to her that sustaining herself with a diet of sugar was neither healthy nor economical, but at the moment, she was so drained, she could not bring herself to care.

The winter air was simultaneously still and biting as she hailed a cab and rode to the bakery. The window was small, but a view of the frosted streets and beautifully rendered architecture reminded her why she loved where she was. _Returning to Paris was a good decision, even if I remain alone._ Working women were rare in the upper classes, and this separated her from the greater part of society. However, since she had no immediate plans to find a husband and settle, this arrangement gave her no trouble. At any rate, men seemed like more trouble than they were worth.

When the cab stopped, she stepped out onto the curb and scurried into the warm, fragrant bakery, stomach grumbling. In a few minutes, she was settled into a comfortable window seat with chocolate-covered cream puffs, a mug of steaming cocoa, and the morning's paper.

After skimming through some general reports about the weather (frigid) and sporting events (also frigid), Amata thumbed to the section on missing persons, since unsolved cases were her source of income.

She almost choked on her hot chocolate when she read the first name: Christine Daaé. _La Daaé, missing? Why was this not on the front page?_ Upon further inspection, she found that the original news had erupted weeks ago. At the time, the young detective had been in the Americas, enjoying New York's theater scene with a distant relative. After that, she'd been busy working on an old case the police left cold. Having been a fan of La Daaé, particularly her stint as Faust's Marguerite, she devoured the article.

Amata remembered the year's scandals. The phantom affair was prominent in her mind- it had been the story of the year for a number of reasons. What she gleaned, there in the shadow of Apollo's Lyre, shook the very foundations of her perception.

It also made her consider asking for a bonus from Count Philippe.

…

If Christine had not been asleep when Erik departed, she would not have let him go. When she woke to an empty space beside her and found it cold, she made her way to the kitchen and found M. Khan waiting. He informed her that Erik had left hours ago, and that even he had no inkling as to where he'd gone.

Time sped up in a surreal blur. She dressed, packed her things (her old clothes, mostly gifts from Erik) and her beloved _Don Juan_ score and wrapped her whole head in a scarf against the cold. In a few minutes, she and Nadir were in a cab and heading to Mlle. Biyu Li's apartment in the downtown area.

"She's a wonderful woman, you'll see- and she cooks the most delicious things. Try not to think of it as hiding," Nadir reassured. "It'll be a bit like a vacation, and then Erik will be back, and you both can do whatever you like from there. Goodness knows he's rich enough for that."

She gave him a sad half-smile. "In the near future I would like to repay her for her generosity, but I have nothing yet."

Sensing the worry that ate away every moment, he sighed deeply. "He will be perfectly well, wherever he is. If anyone knows how to survive the worst, it's him." Then he grinned. "If anything, your concern makes me more certain than ever."

"And why is that?" Christine queried from behind her scarf.

"It has never been more clear to me that you love him. Erik would move heaven and earth for me, and he will not even admit he likes me," he muttered half to himself. "Now just imagine what he might do for you, a woman he loves, who loves him in return."

She leaned back in the padded seat with a huff. "It is that reckless love that worries me."

"Nonetheless, he will return," the Persian said with enviable calm. "A little disappearing act never hurt anyone, least of all him. You know, he once disappeared on me for a whole month. Not a word about anything, just- poof." He gestured with his hands.

"M. Khan?"

"Yes?"

"That's not reassuring at all."

"Ah. My apologies, I'll close my mouth now." True to his word, Nadir was quiet for the rest of the ride. When they arrived to the apartment building, he stepped out and tipped the cabby generously. Christine carried her own things in and up the stairs- they weren't much heavier than an overnight bag. Still, her own strength surprised her. Erik had truly healed her.

Nadir knocked on the heavy door. A moment later there was a metallic click as the woman inside undid the latch- and without preamble seized him by the shirtfront for a bit of passionate smooching. The lovers separated a few seconds after Christine decided to clear her throat a bit loudly. _As much as I approve of their devotion, I do not wish for a view of the inside of M. Khan's mouth._

"Ahem, er, Biyu, this Christine Daaé," he said, straightening his collar. "Christine, this is Biyu Li, your host for the foreseeable future."

Biyu, who recovered admirably without a hair of her tight updo undone, bowed slightly and extended her hand for a shake. She did not flinch when the hand that shook hers appeared to be missing swathes of skin and even a fingernail. _Perhaps she had seen her fair share of damaged human bodies._ Even so, Christine found herself reluctant to remove any outerwear, even the stifling scarf.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mlle. Daaé. Won't you come in? I have a full day off and a pot of soup on the stove."

They all went in. After a few minutes discussing basic amenities, she found it surprisingly easy to talk to the calm, reserved woman across the table. She and Nadir got on well, to say the least, which made Christine feel slightly more at ease. much to her relief, Biyu did not ask her to remove her scarf when it grew too warm to keep her coat on, nor did she comment on her choice of dress: several layers of nightclothes rather than a proper dress. _I don't think I could bear to wear those pretty dresses looking like I do._

Alone, with Erik, she was herself unfettered. Here, back in the world…even eating soup was a challenge. She almost wished she'd brought a mask with her.

"Well," Nadir said rather reluctantly, "I suppose I had best let you get settled in- and tend to Ahmar. She probably needs a meal by now." He leaned back. One hand was under the table- probably to squeeze Mlle. Li's hand. _Obviously he's reluctant to leave Biyu so soon. He's like a lovesick pup_ , Christine thought with amusement. _Am I that way around Erik? I suppose._

 _Did you hear that, Erik? I love you, so you'd best return to me, or- or…_ Or she'd never have another chance to show him what love was. Never sing his compositions again, never see his smiles behind all that dry cynicism. She bit her lip and ducked her head to stifle the fresh tears. _I can't think of that. Survival is what matters now, or he will not have anyone to be his strength._

M. Khan bid them a good day, and Biyu cleared the table, recognizing her need to sit quietly for the moment. A few minutes later, she returned with a handkerchief. When she offered a hug, Christine did not refuse.

…

At precisely 1:00pm, a gaunt man clad in a smart business suit boarded the Orient Express to Strasbourg. A second thin man in a rough black coat also boarded, headed to Munich. In the back of the calais car, a third man in proper gentlemen's clothes sat down to a sparse meal in preparation for the trip to Vienna. Just feet away in the second-class compartments, another man in a suit downed a glass of liquor, fully intending to sleep all the way to Budapest, if possible. Three compartments away, a fifth man in a suit flipped through the latest novel by a favorite author- it would be mental sustenance on the ride to Bucharest. In the baggage car, a sixth man in an ill-fitting suit jacket fussed with his travel bag. The seventh man in a suit was not a passenger, but an attendant scheduled to work until the last stop in Istanbul.

The name of the first man: Erik Anderssen. Of the second: Erik Johansson. Of the third: Erik Karlsson. Of the fourth: Erik Nilsson. Of the fifth: Erik Eriksson. Of the sixth: Erik Larsson. Of the seventh: Erik Olsson.

The train left the station at 1:15pm, carrying seven tall, thin Scandinavian men with unremarkable features by the name (false or otherwise) of Erik. Each of these men carried with them obscene amounts of cash on their person with which they paid for their tickets, meals, and other services. All of them generally avoided other people. Staff, excluding the last man in a suit, regarded the incredible coincidence with shrugs and a few snickers. Rumors flew, escaping the train and spreading through the station.

Erik smiled grimly to himself and settled in to wait.

…

When Det. Moreau had sent a telegram insisting she must discuss something important with him, Philippe de Chagny grinned wolflike and predatory. Was his money finally returning? Or perhaps there was nothing of true importance and the detective simply wished to discuss a bit more business- compensation, and such. Either way, he liked the idea of seeing her again, in any capacity. _She certainly isn't hard on the eyes. Perhaps not grandmother's idea of marriage material, but definitely my idea of the perfect winter fling._

At any rate, the return on his investment into the case could fast be returning. Instead of sending a message in return, he left his office and its abundance of paperwork to meet Mlle. Moreau that evening by the central fountain at the _Place de Vosges_. She had asked that he conceal his identity, and that they meet in secret. If it weren't strictly a business meeting, Philippe might have supposed they could be a couple having a torrid affair.

When he finally arrived to the appointed meeting place, she was already there. The woman turned at the sound of his footsteps on the iced paving stones. "You're late." Mlle. Moreau's pretty mouth was set in a hard line.

"Yes, but I pay you, not the other way around," he said smugly. "What was it you wished to discuss? Not money, I hope; it hasn't been a week yet."

She rolled her eyes, but at least made an effort to remain civil. "There has been a development in the case, one that requires police presence."

At this his gaze darkened. "I dislike Parisian police- they do little to curb crime and tend to put a dent in profit margins. I have men who can do a cleaner job-"

The woman cut him off with a huff. "Forgive me, M. le Comte, if I overstep my boundaries by saying so, but I am a professional investigator. It is my professional opinion that the assassin you wished to ensnare is too dangerous to be confronted by one person who owns one gun. Despite my cooperation with the police, I have never failed and never lost my quarry, so you had best listen to me if there isn't excess wax in your pampered earholes!"

For about ten seconds, Philippe stood in stunned silence. No one, no _woman_ , had ever dared address him so assertively, least of all those on his payroll. When he did not speak immediately, she continued.

"In fact, I might report you to the police for withholding information about a known criminal- one still within city limits." She folded her arms with satisfaction when this captured his attention. The count scowled. Then he took off his hat, inspected it, and set it back on his head.

"What do you mean, 'within city limits'? I hired you to find a political assassin. That, I believe, is state jurisdiction, not city police." _Does she mean to tell me that this criminal is in Paris?_

Amata narrowed her eyes, assessing him. "I should remind you that bounty hunting is illegal in France. Thus, police presence is required if you want to catch this man."

Just to piss her off, Philippe wiped his pinkies inside his ears and held them up. They were both clean. "I'm listening." The young woman just rolled her eyes.

"That's disgusting."

"I've been called worse," the count said with a smirk. "Now, get to the point- the sooner he's incarcerated, the sooner you'll be paid."

"Fine. However, regardless if you believe me, I am going to the police with this information." She crossed her arms even tighter against a sudden chill. Then she tensed as something hard and cold pressed into her lumbar vertebrae. A thug behind her seized her wrists and twisted them up behind her back.

"No, you are not." Philippe watched with no small amount of satisfaction as Det. Moreau's expression changed from annoyance to fear. "I never go anywhere without a bodyguard on call. You see, I'm in need of funds for my political campaign, funds my explorer brother has spent. I intended to redeem every bounty from every country, and give you a generous cut. You could have been a millionaire." He retrieved a pistol from his coat pocket and cocked it. "Unfortunately, because you are a stupid woman, you will now divulge your information and leave the country, if you know what's good for you."

He stepped in close to the detective, saw her pale, gritted teeth and cold sweat. Then he angled his gun just under her chin. One twitch of his index, and her brains would splatter on the ice and rock below. That pale throat convulsed as she swallowed back terror. "Come now, _detective_ , would you die for a known criminal?" His logic won out in the end.

"The opera-" she panted through the pain of her twisted arms. "The assassin fled to Paris- he is the phantom of the opera."

Philippe licked his lips and smiled. Then, before withdrew his gun, he leaned even closer and dragged his tongue over Amata's temple. She shook. "Hmmm… Intriguing."


	15. Chapter 15

Amata stood trembling before Count Philippe. Bile rose in her throat as she felt the cold barrel of both guns, one pointed up under her chin and the other rammed against her spine. The count ran his tongue across his lips, as if savoring the taste of her fear-dampened skin. Her eyes flicked to and fro.

Philippe de Chagny was tall and brawny, and his stance was that of one used to fighting. It would be no use trying to fight him, since he had the physical advantage. Her arms twitched as the muscles of her twisted arms spasmed. Whoever it was behind her certainly had a strong grip and very big hands.

It occurred to her that there was only one hand around her wrists. The other hand was on the gun. The count was chuckling to himself about how things had come full circle. He retracted his pistol for a moment- just long enough for Amata to make her move.

Her boot heel made hard, sudden contact with the bodyguard's groin. As he dropped the pistol and released her arms, she caught it in her right. Her left hand went for the knife clipped to her bodice, hidden by her coat. With all her strength, she hauled the thug behind her up in front as a shield, knife at his throat. His gun in her right pointed at the count, who now stood aiming his own firearm.

A mixture of cold fury and hate twisted de Chagny's otherwise attractive features.

The hired muscle had recovered somewhat, but did not dare twitch, feeling the cold steel against his jugular. "Move," Amata hissed, and started backing out of the square.

"You're not in a position to do that," the count said, staring down the short barrel.

"And you're not in a position to shoot your own bodyguard," Amata said. "He probably has a family- people who'd notice if he was gone." The nearest cover was a few yards away in the form of the archways that led indoors. She started moving faster. "You move, and I slit his throat."

She felt the man swallow hard. _Hopefully he falls for this._ The _comte_ sneered. "You're a detective, not a killer."

Amata felt her heart thumping as if it might jump up and out of her throat. "Do you want to bet this man's life on it?" The columns were nearly within reach. If she could just drop her burden and run, she'd be safe. With the information she had, and the witness of her own eyes, she was still a threat, so de Chagny might very well send his men after her. Still, that was better than dying now, where he had full control of the situation and any number of ways to clean up the scene of the crime. That meant if she was going to be on the run, a few shots fired hardly mattered.

 _His gun is an FN Model 1910, the very latest- probably .32 ACP. That means seven rounds. I have the same._ Was that the man in front of her breathing hard? Was it her? She fought back the fear in her gut. Just a few more feet to go, and she could run for her life. The odds of Philippe wasting bullets as she ducked between columns was slim, and once she left the square they'd be out on the street, which meant witnesses. He wouldn't fire then.

At least, she hoped he wouldn't.

She knew he also had a handle on the situation. "My offer still stands, Mlle. Moreau. There's plenty of that bounty for both of us. How does two million francs sound? Or three? That's not even fifty percent, and fifty percent is what I offer you." Even now, he played up his smooth charm, masking the ugly rage and desperation from just moments prior.

Amata gripped the knife firmly and steeled her nerves. The bodyguard whimpered. "I told you I don't charge extra," she called back. _Sorry about this_ , she mentally apologized to her human shield. Then she slammed the hilt of her knife hard into his temple, ensuring he'd be out cold for the next few minutes. He dropped to the ground, and she sprinted towards the street.

The inspector did not have the opportunity to think while she ran, but she knew the count's men would be combing the city for her by morning at the latest. When at last the sound of Philippe's heavy feet on her tail vanished, she ducked into a narrow byway and sunk to the damp ground, fighting for breath. _What happened just now was nothing short of miraculous_ , she decided. _I am alive and whole, not a single shot fired._

She was wholeheartedly thankful for the latest fashion: women's pants were the current trend, ungainly and flowing though they were.

Once her heart stopped feeling like it might jump out of her mouth, she pocketed her newly acquired pistol and considered what she'd heard and seen. M. le Comte de Chagny planned on running for office. He was already well-liked. Doubtless he'd win any election, considering his connections to native and foreign governments. However, he needed money to sway public opinion and gain favor with other officials.

Det. Moreau knew as clear as anything that a man like him should never be in power.

 _I know what he is. I can stop him._

…

"You can take off the scarf if you wish," Biyu said, while cleaning up their early dinner and its leftovers. "It hardly matters what you look like." Christine hesitated, fingering the edges of the fabric over her face. "We are living together. I will encounter your uncovered face at some point, if not now. I would rather the experience not be traumatic for you." The little woman had her hands on her hips and her lips pursed.

"Do you have a mirror?"

"In the washroom, yes."

"I'd like a look at myself first, if that's all right." Christine said quietly. At this, Biyu's expression turned from frustration to confusion.

"You have not seen yourself since…?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "Erik has no mirrors."

"Ah. I see." Evidently Nadir had told her about Erik and his own peculiarities. "Take your time, then." She gestured towards the washroom door. "My home is your home." As the younger woman stood and headed towards said door, she added: "Spare toiletries are in the basket by the tub."

"Thank you." So, the former singer opened the door, entered, and closed it behind her. Once inside, she took a deep, shaky breath and leaned forward on the cold porcelain of the sink. Her hands, matted with half-raw scars were familiar by now, as were the webs of angry red mottling all around her torso and legs. In fact, after daily applications of medicinal ointment and lotions, Christine thought of her body as more of a chore than a vessel for her soul.

In the mirror, her covered head lifted, and she sighed out slowly, as if beginning a breathing exercise. The black scarf slipped a bit, revealing the top of her bare head. _If I take this off… If I remove this cloth, I will not recognize myself_ , she realized. _But I must live with the change. Erik removed his mask, and now I must remove my own._

With a steadier inhalation and Erik's loving eyes in her mind, Christine unwound the fabric around her head. Mingled relief and nausea washed through her as she surveyed her face for the first time since the fire. The same livid marks that encircled her body extended up from her chest and neck to her jaw and across her cheek, pulling one side of her mouth into a blur between oral and scar tissue. The other side of her face boasted an array of pockmarks and bumps that rose like darkened blisters. Her nose had not completely escaped contracture as she healed, leaving the flesh withdrawn from the dainty tip it once had and exposing more nasal cavity than was normal. Above eyebrows half regrown, her forehead sported ropy, textured lines that extended and merged into a scalp that would never grow hair again, stitched together by malformed flesh.

It was as she predicted to herself, and yet so much worse. _If I were still pretty, I could walk the street and everyone would recognize me as Christine Daaé. Now, if I ventured outside…_ Her only greetings would be disgust and pity. _No one knows who I am- not even me._ The longer she stared at the reflection, the more alien it seemed. The only piece of her self she recognized was her eyes, blue and blinking in the dim light.

Her fingers reached up to trace her new features and felt the damp of tears. She hadn't noticed when she started crying.

With a jerk, she drew back and turned away. _What am I doing? Weeping is useless. Goodness knows it hasn't helped in the past._ And with that resolution set in her mind, she turned away from the mirror, washed quickly, and spent the rest of the evening strangely glad that even love could not stop time. _Every moment passed, no matter how painful, is a moment closer to Erik._

It was a small comfort that Biyu, true to her word, said nothing and reacted very little to her uncovered face.

…

Nadir returned from his brief venture underground tired and scented of cat piss. _I will never understand why Erik decided to keep a cat, even a young one like her. Perhaps it was the eyes._ Not only did Ahmar clearly dislike him, she'd decided to urinate outside her assigned box, since it had been dirty for too long. That would have been easy enough to avoid stepping in, but her new choice of toilet was the bathroom sink. Nadir had gone to wash his hands after he changed out the soiled sand in the box, only to splash himself with the offensive-smelling liquid as he turned the faucet.

 _It was definitely the eyes. Why else would he adopt such a troublesome animal? He probably couldn't resist the idea of having a feline with irises to match his own._ Ahmar had not shown herself when he set out her food, so after a five-minute wait he returned to his own home, wanting nothing more than a hot bath and a fresh change of clothes.

Entirely too conscious of the odor lingering about him, he purchased a baguette sandwich at the nearest café and walked home. He would not humiliate himself by entering a cab and allowing the smell to accumulate. It was not until he had been walking for an hour that he realized just how far his home was from Erik's.

He walked another hour before finally trudging up three flights of stairs and arriving at his door- his open door. The light inside was on. _What the devil?_ He knelt silently to inspect the lock, which bore a few new scratches and was slightly askew from rough jostling. As far as he knew, the landlord had his own set of keys and no need to pick any lock in the building. Yes, he was slightly behind on his monthly payments, but M. Leroy was more likely to send him a note than force his way in. _I hate home invasions._

With an audible sigh, he pulled his personal handgun from the holster under his coat and called through the door: "Show yourself- better to come quietly than with a bullet wound." He nudged the door open with a toe. Then he narrowed his eyes at the woman standing in front of him with her hands up. One of her hands held a gun, the latest model Browning action. It was the private detective who'd come in asking about Erik's incident with the Russian.

His first thought was that she'd traced his connection to Erik somehow. Perhaps she thought his obstruction was highly suspicious. "Put the gun on the ground, slowly."

She did so. "I had no intention of firing, you know." As a gesture of trust, she kicked the firearm towards him. It skidded to a stop at his feet. "I am running from Count de Chagny."

"And why should I believe you?" Nadir kept his aim trained on her as he picked up the weapon. "He might be paying you generously to set a trap." The woman scoffed.

"Now he pays nothing. De Chagny wants the phantom's bounty money to start his political career. I am here to warn him." The ex-policeman said nothing and held his pistol steady. "What, you want proof?" Slowly, to ensure he saw, she pushed her coat sleeves up her forearms and undid the buttons of her cuffs. Around her wrists, dark and irritated, were bruises from a violent grip. "I gained these (and the gun) escaping from his hired muscle."

Still, Khan was skeptical. "Why would you want to warn someone you know was a criminal?" _Not everyone appreciates Erik's potential for good like I do. She might just be angling for information on his location._

"Because I do not want a corrupt man in power. I have an inkling that Europe will descend into chaos sooner rather than later if the count gets his campaign. I realize, of course, that the phantom's antics may have killed a few people in the past year, but better a few than thousands in the grip of war."

 _…I need a drink._ At last, the daroga lowered his guard and put his gun back into its holster. "That is a very convincing argument. Besides, I happen to know that the phantom is retired." He strode over to his understocked kitchenette and opened a heavy bottle of armagnac. "Det. Moreau is your name, if I'm not mistaken?" He poured a small amount of the dark liquid into a glass and knocked it back with a hiss.

"Yes, and if _L'Epoque_ is correct, your name is M. Khan, former daroga of Mazenderan." Det. Moreau eyed the brandy. "I could use a bit of that. May I?"

"By all means," the Persian said, and handed her the whole bottle. She took a generous swig and set it back on the countertop with a muted thunk. "I'm sorry to say that if you wished to warn the phantom through me, I do not know where he is and therefore cannot carry the message." The detective frowned at him, grabbed the bottle, and took another swig.

"You mean to say there is no way to contact him?" This time she did not put the bottle back down. Nadir shook his head and leaned back against the counter.

"Even if I did know where he was, I could not tell you- for safety reasons, you understand." She did; if the count got his talons into her and tortured the information out of her (no, she did not put torture past that evil man), all was for naught. "I have a vague idea of where he might be, however."

"And where is that?" Clearly the woman was exhausted. Nadir thought it might be polite to just put off the search until morning, but Erik's safety and possibly the fate of the world took priority over sleep.

"He mentioned something about a train."

…

Erik was not on a train. That was the genius of it all. Using the ill-gotten valuables retrieved from beneath the opera, he had bought a car under the name of M. Lefevre, who had set out for Germany earlier in the year. The retired opera manager had paid him well over the years. He might as well extract one more benefit from the name.

That car now sat in a rotting warehouse, waiting for its owner. He lay on a pallet in the same warehouse, staring at the dusty rafters above. The familiar pang of loneliness was only lessened by one thought: Christine was safe. Still, he missed her.

He missed her bright smiles and unfettered laughter. He missed her bold remarks and gentle chiding and the music they made together. They'd been working, rather flirtatiously, on a duet from Mozart's _Don Giovanni_. Since her 'lessons' no longer pertained to actual performance, he simply delighted in teaching and learning the music for the sake of it.

 _Là ci darem la mano… 'I'll give you my hand.'_ Despite his playing the role of the Don, it was Christine who had given her hand, offered it freely and without hesitation. She had offered the same hand he'd placed a gold band on months prior. Now that hand was scarred. With love so intense it ached, he recalled how fascinated she'd been by her missing nail. The fire that brought them together burned away the nail of her ring finger. It was suiting, really.

If it was the last thing he did, Erik swore to himself that he'd slip a ring onto that ruined finger. _Then she will give her hand, and for whatever time we have left, we will be together in the light. I might even put on a bit more weight. People in love tend to do that._

As if to reiterate his mind, his stomach grumbled. Caring for Christine forced him to eat regularly. Now he was left with all the hunger and none of the motivation. As a safety measure, he'd packed away weeks' worth of dry rations and canned food. None of it compared to a home-cooked meal.

Caring for Christine forced him to do many things. Even from the beginning, when she still believed in angels, she forced him to care- to hope, to love, to weep, and then to let her go. When she again found herself under his protection, she forced him to acknowledge that he did still hope, and love, and weep. She forced him to reveal himself and his whole soul as she did in return.

That same force she wielded now pushed the bellows of his lungs in breath and stimulated the beat of his heart. _I shall indeed give her my hand, my heart, my all- only let me live through this last trial, and we will be together forever._


End file.
